


The Fixer in Wonderland

by ebjameston



Series: Stilinski & Associates [2]
Category: Scandal (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Politics, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, BAMF Stiles, F/M, First Son Derek Hale, M/M, Political Fixer Stiles Stilinski, President Talia Hale, seriously angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebjameston/pseuds/ebjameston
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles picks at a stray thread that his fingers find in the dark. “You didn’t see his face, Scott. He was looking at me like I was the answer to every question he’d ever had, like everything was going to be perfect and sunshine and unicorns from now on. First time Derek’s told anyone ever how he feels.”</p>
<p>“And you yelled at him," Scott says.</p>
<p>“And I yelled at him,” Stiles agrees, burying his face in the pillow. “Although, to be fair, four years ago he left me standing in a hallway with my pants around my ankles while a reporter taped the whole thing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. look up, child, the world is born

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: This is the second part in a series, and you're going to be seriously confused if you don't read The Fixer and the First Son first. 
> 
> PSA, part 2: Careful with the time jumps in this chapter, friends - lots more back-and-forth than usual to fit Stiles' frame of mind. Read the headers! We'll return to normal formatting in the next chapter.

**October, Year Four of Talia Hale’s First Term**

           

The first thing Stiles actually processes is Scott saying, “Stiles, _breathe_.”

Yes. Breathing. Breathing is a thing that he can do.

His tunnel vision reverses in a dizzying explosion of light and color on the first inhale, and he works to loosen his death grip on the back of one of chairs. The picture of his mother in his other hand is creased around the edges from his grasp, and he lets it fall to the table. Scott anchors Stiles’ now-free hand against his chest.

“This isn’t possible,” he wheezes the instant he’s capable of rational thought and partial sentences. “My mother was a _kindergarten teacher_. She was a kindergarten teacher and she died ten years ago, this can’t be – it isn’t possible.”

His team is talking over him. Scott helps him sit down, and Stiles rests his forehead against the table. The solidity and coolness of the wood helps.

 

**April, Second Grade (20 years ago)**

“But it’s Tuesday,” Stiles insists. “On Tuesdays, _you_ put me to bed and we read a chapter of Harry Potter. You promised.”

“I know, lovebug, I know,” his mom says, kissing him on the forehead. The ends of her scarf tickle his nose. “But I made these plans with Mrs. Murphy too long ago to cancel now. Tell you what – tonight, you think about what you want for your birthday and let your dad put you to bed. Then you and I will read a chapter of Harry Potter _every night_ for the rest of the week to make up for it. How’s that sound?”

Stiles considers. They’re only three chapters from the end of the second book, which means they’ll be starting the next one by the end of the week. “Okay,” he says cautiously. “But tell Mrs. Murphy that she’s a poophead for taking you on a Tuesday.”

“I absolutely will not tell her that! That’s awfully rude – where’d you hear that word?”

Stiles beckons her closer to lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s what Daddy said about Mr. Wilkins next door. That he’s a poophead.”

His mom sighs and looks across the room. “John. Are you teaching our son to insult the neighbors?”

“If this is about Tom Wilkins, I stand by what I said,” his dad says, straightening up from where he’d been digging a stray sock out from between Stiles’ bed and the wall.

She looks at him fondly, like he’s being annoying but she loves him anyway. It’s the same look she gets when Stiles does things like take all the doorknobs off the doors to see if all of their insides are the same. “You’re a bad influence.”

“I’m a better influence than Tom Wilkins,” his dad says, sweeping his mom into his arms and kissing her.

“Ew,” Stiles says pointedly.

“Yes, very ew,” his mom agrees, laughing and squirming her way free. “I’m going to be late! I’ll see you in the morning, Bug. Love you forever and a day.”

 

**October, Fourth Year of Talia Hale’s First Term**

“It doesn’t make sense, though,” Kira insists again. They’ve cleared everything off Stiles’ kitchen table except the picture of his mom, and Lydia’s writing up what they’ve learned about B6-13 since January in tiny, impeccable shorthand on color-coded Post-its and sticking them in a spiraling web. The white piece of paper at the center of the table reads _WONDERLAND_ – the codename, Malia had said.  “Malia, you said that Claudia –.”

“Claire,” Malia interjects. “She goes by Claire, Claire Collins.”

“Collins was her maiden name,” Stiles says. His brain is slowly, slowly inching back towards its normal capacity, aided in large part by the double-strong coffee Scott’s been brewing nonstop for the past hour.

“Fine,” Kira says. “You said B6-13 found Isaac working for Stilinski & Associates months before the assassination attempt. So Command – Claire, Claudia, whatever – has known that Stiles is here, in DC, for at least that long. Why wouldn’t she have reached out to him?”

“Why’d she fake her death in the first place?” Stiles mutters into his mug. “She let me think she was dead for ten years, what’s another couple months?”

Scott’s hand touches his elbow, a silent reassurance. “We don’t know that that’s how it happened. She could have been abducted, or blackmailed into this – she could be trying to keep you safe.”

“Yeah, I definitely feel really _safe_ right now, Scott,” Stiles snaps, unable to edit out the anger lacing his voice.

“A shitty attitude doesn’t help anyone, Stiles,” Lydia says politely, sticking another green Post-it in the short line of known B6-13 agents. _Malia. Isaac. Braeden. Barrow. Ethan. Aiden. Violet._ All single names, with blurry accompanying pictures locked in one of Stiles’ hidden safes. “Are we sure this is everyone?”

“It’s everyone I’ve worked with,” Malia confirms, nodding at the list of names. “Command keeps us all isolated from one another as much as possible. We don’t work in teams unless the situation absolutely demands it, with the exception of our mentors. Silo-ed knowledge, so no one person can take down the organization.”

“Who was your mentor?” Lydia asks off-handedly. “Barrow? He’s the only one old enough.”

“My mentor’s dead,” Malia says bluntly.

“Mine isn’t,” Isaac says. The room goes silent as Isaac takes Lydia’s pen and Post-its, scribbles, and adds a name to the end of the list. _Deucalion_. Isaac stares at it with that distant, haunted look in his eyes again, and Stiles has another one of those awful moments of clarity when he realizes that everything Isaac told him when they first met – all the horrifying things that had been done to him, all the things he’d been forced to do, all the things he’d come to _like_ doing – were real, not just the ramblings of a severely traumatized child abuse victim.

“But _why_ wouldn’t she reach out to you?” Kira demands again.

           

**October, Fifth Grade (17 years ago)**

“I’m not going,” Stiles repeats, taking a pair of swim trunks out of the bag his mom’s been trying to pack for the past twenty minutes. “Camp is stupid and I’m not going.”

“Camp is _not_ stupid, and you _are_ going,” she says, gently tugging the trunks out of his hands and putting them back in the bag. “I don’t get it, Stiles – you were so excited about this a few weeks ago. You’re going to canoe and fish and hike. What’s the problem?”

“I already _know_ how to do all those things.” He plops down on his bed. “I’m a _Boy Scout_.”

“Hence why we’re sending you to Boy Scout _Camp_ ,” she says, adding a handful of socks. “You’re going to get to make friends from all over the country.”

“I already _have_ friends.”

“You’ll get to get away from me and your dad for a month.”

Stiles is silent at that. He kicks weakly at the duffel.

“Ah, I get it,” his mom says, flopping down next to him. “You’re worried that your dad and me are going to miss you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No. Yeah. Well, what if you do? I’m going to be a million miles away.”

“Indiana is hardly a million miles away. We’ll write you letters, and you can write back! I put some stamps and envelopes in your backpack. And,” she adds, leaning closer and ruffling his hair, “I actually already sent you one. It’ll be waiting for you when you get there!”

“You already sent me a letter at camp?” Stiles repeats, crinkling his nose. “But I’m still here. Why didn’t you just give it to me?”

"Where’s the fun in that?” She asks, bouncing off the bed. “Now, c’mon. I can’t miss you forever and a day if you won’t _leave_ , and you can’t leave if you don’t pack.”

“But you don’t miss me forever and a day, you _love_ me forever and a day,” Stiles says, begrudgingly getting off the bed and heading to the closet.

“Oh, is that how that goes?” She says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he walks past. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

**October, Fourth Year of Talia Hale’s First Term**

“Wait,” Stiles says, tracing his fingers along the blue Post-its Lydia’s using to represent their approximated timeline. “When did my mother become Command?”

“We’ve been over that,” Scott says, yawning as he searches for a spare orange Post-it. It’s nearly midnight, and they’ve been at this for hours. “Malia was recruited when she was eighteen, and Command changed to your mom four years later. Would’ve been when we were…just starting L1 at Stanford?”

Stiles taps the corresponding blue square. “But Isaac, you were already…oh, _Isaac_ ,” he sighs, trying to make eye contact with him across the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What’s going on?” Kira asks, looking between Isaac and Stiles in alarm.

Lydia turns her calculating gaze on Isaac as well, but Isaac is staring, unblinking, at the _Deucalion_ Post-it. “You were fourteen when B6-13 took you, Isaac,” she says. “And you only got out three years ago.”

“No one gets out of B6-13,” Isaac says hoarsely.

“You knew,” Stiles says. “You’ve been in my apartment a million times, you’ve seen my parents’ wedding photo, you knew she was my mom. And you didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t know – you don’t know what she’s done,” Isaac says. “If you had any idea – the sort of person she is now – it was kinder for you not to know.”

“Kinder? _Kinder_?” Stiles retorts, practically shouting.

“Let’s take a break,” Malia says suddenly, physically inserting herself between Stiles and Isaac. “Stiles, why don’t you head out to the balcony?”

There’s rage simmering in Stiles’ stomach, but he recognizes the run-down and wary looks on his team’s faces well enough to know the wisdom in her words. He stalks out to the little balcony his fourth-floor apartment has, breathing in the just-this-side-of-biting October air.

“Hey,” Malia says from behind him after a few minutes, joining him on the balcony and sliding the door shut. “Cut Isaac some slack.”

“Are you kidding me? Did you hear – he’s known for _years_.”

“Stiles, there’s something that I think you still don’t really understand,” she says, bracing her elbows on the railing and looking out over the city. “For the past couple years, you’ve been building this team and you’ve got it in your head that you’re the scariest people in the game. And it’s true, S&A keeps some pretty powerful secrets, and that makes you a contender. But the people I work with, the people Isaac worked with – God, with _Deucalion_ as his mentor, I can’t imagine – we’re not even playing the same game. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, no,” Stiles says, and maybe it’s a tad petulant of him, but it’s true.

“Yeah, I’m not doing a good job of explaining this.” She sighs and looks up at the night sky, searching for stars through the cloud cover. “I don’t know what you know about Isaac, but Command gave me his file when they sent me after him. His dad used to lock him in a freezer in the basement and leave him there for days – I’ve seen pictures where he must’ve scratched the lid for so long that he wore his fingers down to the bone. We have this thing in Wonderland that’s called the Pit, and that’s literally all it is: a tiny hole in the ground where we hold people who aren’t doing what Command wants. Deucalion once had Isaac locked down there for sixth months straight, no light, no human interaction, no sound, no anything, just for returning from assignment a day late.”

Stiles stares at her. “He never told me that.”

“Yeah, well, the Pit’s a place we mostly try to forget,” she says. “I spent two weeks there once, and I was nearly catatonic when they brought me out.”

“Shit.”

“That’s an understatement.” She straightens up and leans away from the railing, letting her weight pull her arms taut. There’s a centimeter-thick scar running from her elbow up into her sleeve. “The worst your team is does is…end someone’s career. Humiliate them in the press. Blackmail, evidence corruption, witness tampering. My team threw one of its _own_ , someone who already had deeply ingrained claustrophobia and nyctophobia, into a pitch-black hole for half a year. Your team has covered up four of the murders that my team committed, and you didn’t even know we _existed_. When I say that we’re not playing the same game, I mean that you are still playing by rules that don’t apply to the other side. You are _extremely_ out of your depth. So when I say cut Isaac some slack, I mean _cut Isaac some fucking slack_.”

She heads back inside without giving him the opportunity to respond – not that he has any idea what he’d say. He takes in his view, wondering for perhaps the first time if coming back to DC after law school had been a huge, huge mistake. Malia’s right, he’s definitely out of his depth, and at the moment he’s so tired that he can barely think and he’s got six missed calls from Derek on his phone and a text from Laura saying, _He might be an idiot, but he’s hopelessly gone on you and it took a lot for him to tell you that. Call him back when you’re not so mad_? and when he remembers that about thirty-two hours ago, Derek Hale publicly quit an election and then kissed him and professed his undying love and Stiles _yelled_ at him and walked out –

“Everyone stays here tonight,” Stiles says tiredly, letting himself back in the apartment and locking the door behind him. He’s pretty sure his left eyeball is in the process of consuming his contact lens. His team, still crowded around the table, looks up at him. “Scott, Lyds, call Ally and Jackson if you need to. But everyone stays here, and we’ll start again in the morning.”

**January, Tenth Grade (12 years ago)**

“Mom?” Stiles calls, dropping his lacrosse stuff on the porch and clambering into house. “You home?” He finds her in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and throwing them into a big pot on the stove.

“Hi, Bug,” she says, smiling warmly at him and pressing a kiss to his still-sweaty cheek as he walks to the sink. “How was school? How was practice?”

“Coach made me do laps for being late because I was in the detention that _he_ gave me in Econ,” Stiles says, filling a glass of water and collapsing onto one of the stools across the counter. “So there’s that.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Stiles exclaims, doing his best to look innocent and put-upon. “Okay, well, _almost_ nothing. It’s not my fault that he clearly doesn't understand the principles of microeconomics. He was teaching the entire class wrong information – he should be _thanking_ me for correcting him, really.”

“It’s a public high school with a budget so strapped that the lacrosse and cross-country coach has to double as an Economics teacher,” she points out, flicking a piece of carrot peel at him. “Find a way to be helpful that isn’t condescending.”

“Fine, fine,” Stiles grumbles, draining his water. “Need help with dinner?”

"Sure. Wash your hands, grab the tomatoes, and get to choppin’.”

They work in silence for a few minutes – or near silence, since they’re both humming along with the classic rock playlist his mom is running through the house-wide PA system Stiles spent most of last summer hooking up.

“So, I think I’m gay,” Stiles finally says, not looking up from the tomatoes he’s dicing into ever-smaller pieces.

There’s half a beat of silence from his mom’s station at his elbow, and Bon Jovi informs both of them that they’re too vain. “Okay. What makes you say that?”

“Charlie Darling’s abs,” Stiles says simply, trying to disguise the slight shake in his voice. _It’s fine, it’ll be fine. They’ve always said that they would love me no matter what, forever and a day. They have dinner with Marc and Carlos twice a month. They don’t have a problem with gay people._ “And shoulders. And, gah, the way he can be so charming and so irritating at the same time.”

“Isn’t he the one who had to get his stomach pumped for eating too much paste?”

“We were kids, Mom.”

“Paste-eating is normal in kindergarten, Stiles – I should know, I see it every day. As I recall, this was fourth grade.”

“Yeah, well, he’s developed since then.”

She snorts a little and transfers a handful of chicken sausage to the pot. “Sounds like you think he’s _developed_ in all the right places.”

“Mom! Gross!”

“I’m not the one waxing poetic about his shoulders,” she points out. She comes around to Stiles’ other side and stills his hands with her own. Stiles has always loved his mother’s hands – for as long as he can remember, they’ve been the perfect blend of callused and soft, always stained with fingerpaint or marker ink or actual oil paint, if she’s been in her studio. “You know that we love you unconditionally, right? That _means_ no conditions, including the gender of whomever you love.”

“Mom, I do not _love_ Charlie Darling.”

She releases his hands and goes back to her cutting board. “Well, good, because I’m hoping that my grandchildren don’t become nine-year-old paste-eaters.”

There’s a little more silence. Bon Jovi continues to chastise them for giving love a bad name.

“Do yourself a favor,” she says in the quiet between one song and the next. “Don’t try to label yourself just yet.”

Stiles freezes. “If you think I’m too young to know what I want, or that this, like, doesn’t _count_ because I’m only sixteen –.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she cuts in. “Whatever you’re feeling now is completely valid. But you don’t need to jump immediately from one bucket to the next. One crush doesn’t necessarily make you one thing or another. You _are_ young. Give it time. Who you are now isn’t necessarily who you’ll be in ten years, and there’s no need to rule out 50% of the population when you’re sixteen. The world’s going to try to force you into a nice neat little box so they can understand you and file you away – don’t make it any easier on them. Give yourself some breathing room. For now, love who you love, crush on who you crush on, think about whoever you want to think about during _Stiles_ time – oh, come on, like I don’t know what you’re doing when you lock your door and turn the music up – just know that your father and I will _always_ love you, Bug, and you can _always_ talk to us. Forever and a day.”

**October, Fourth Year of Talia Hale’s First Term**

“Thanks for hooking up the TV, by the way,” Stiles says absently, swishing all the toothpaste foam to one side of his mouth. “What did I do wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Malia says. “Your apartment is bugged.”

Stiles aspirates on toothpaste and hacks it up into the sink, blood rushing to his head. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how Malia says the most alarming things in the most innocuous, statement-of-accepted-fact tone. _I was sent here to kill Isaac, B6-13 is real, your apartment is bugged_. “What?”

“Your apartment is bugged,” she repeats. “There are three extra wires – two of them are mine. I’m not sure about the third yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

" _You_ bugged my apartment?”

“Of course I did,” she says slowly, looking perplexed at his incredulity.

“ _Jesus_ , Malia, you can’t just – the office, too?”

She nods. “And Scott and Allison’s. Lydia’s is clean, so is Kira’s.”

“What – _why_?” He chucks his toothbrush into its cup. “Why would you do that?”

“The other bugs were already in place,” she says, casually kicking off her jeans and stealing a pair of Stiles’ sweatpants. Another thing Stiles will never get over about Malia – no sense of modesty, no concept of boundaries. He’s somewhat used to it from Isaac at this point, but at least Isaac has the decency to keep his clothes on, whereas Malia seems to glory in making Stiles uncomfortable. “I figured that if someone else is already keeping tabs on you, we should at least know what they’re getting.”

“Unbelievable,” Stiles breathes, passing her a spare toothbrush. He tosses another to Kira through the open door of his bedroom. Lydia keeps her own in her purse, he’s pretty sure Isaac doesn’t brush his teeth, and Scott’ll probably just use his (wouldn’t be the first time). “Have Isaac and Kira help you track the feed in the morning.”

In a rare moment of openness, an expression besides clinical disinterest, confidence, or _well, obviously_ crosses Malia’s face. “If _I_ can’t trace it, there’s no way _they_ can.”

“Don’t let Kira hear you say that,” Scott says, coming through the door and throwing himself face-first onto Stiles’ bed. “She’ll change every shortcut on your phone so that all you can text people is the word ‘caterpillar’ over and over and over.”

“I get a new phone every four days,” Malia says, then leaves the room with her jeans in one hand and toothbrush in the other.

“So,” Scott says, flipping around so he’s on his back and wiggling his eyebrows at Stiles suggestively. “Ready to spend the night together?”

Stiles shouldn’t be surprised when he actually has to snort back a little laugh. Leave it to Scott to say the exact thing he needs to make him forget how incredibly fucked they all are, if only for a second. “Just like old times, right?”

Scott dives under the covers headfirst and emerges a few seconds later with messy hair. “Dude, there are _socks_ in here.”

“My feet get cold,” Stiles says defensively. He swings the door mostly shut, flips off the lights, and slides in next to him.

"So you leave _dirty socks_ in your bed?”

“Hey, remember that time I walked in on you using an empty Cheetos bag to –.”

“Okay, okay, point taken,” Scott says. “So, when are you going to tell me what happened with Derek?”

“You know what happened, you were watching the debate _when_ it happened,” Stiles says, punching his pillow into shape.

“Oh, so you just had a civil, professional discussion about quitting on live TV and then hopped on a plane home?”

Stiles heaves out a sigh. “I yelled. He told me that he’s in love with me. I left.”

Scott lets out a low whistle. “Well, _shit_.”

“Understatement,” Stiles says, echoing Malia’s words from earlier.

“So, do you love _him_?”

“What? No, Scott, I – I don’t know,” Stiles finishes lamely, turning over onto his stomach and bunching the pillow beneath his chest. “I don’t know. I told him yesterday – he’s still the same person he was four years ago, during his mom’s campaign. And I’m…not.”

Scott makes a little noise of dissent. “I don’t know about that. I mean, you’ve changed, sure, but I think he has too. I told him you’d basically wipe him off the face of the planet if he hurt you again, and he just stood there looking at me like hurting you was the last thing he would ever, _ever_ want to do. And if he actually told you he loves you – that’s huge for him, isn’t it? Derek from four years ago would never have said that.”

Stiles picks at a stray thread that his fingers find in the dark. “You didn’t see his face, Scott. He was looking at me like I was the answer to every question he’d ever had, like everything was going to be perfect and sunshine and unicorns from now on. First time the guy’s told anyone _ever_ how he feels.”

“And you yelled at him.”

“And I yelled at him,” Stiles agrees, burying his face in the pillow. “Although, to be fair, Derek from four years ago left me standing in a hallway with my pants around my ankles while a reporter taped the whole thing.”

“Thought you said you’d forgiven him for that.”

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re on Derek’s side or mine.”

“Yours, buddy, always, but I want you to be happy.”

Stiles flips to his back again. “My mom’s back from the dead and running a secret government agency. We’re helping the suspect in the attempt on the president’s life evade capture. There are assassins sleeping in my living room. I think ‘happy’ might have to take a backseat to ‘alive’ for the time being.”

 

**September, Freshman Year at Stanford (10 years ago)**

Stiles pulls both of his parents into one last hug, wondering when exactly he became taller than his mom. “Call me when you get home safe, okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound slightly muffled by Stiles’ shoulder. “I think that’s our line. As the parents.”

“It’s a long drive and it’s late,” Stiles says. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night and leave in the morning? I can sleep on the futon and you can have my bed – I’m sure Scott wouldn’t mind.”

“We are not crashing our son’s first night at college,” his mom says, pulling out of the hug a little and looking at him sternly. “This night sets the tone for your entire year. Go meet all the cute guys and girls on your floor. Find an upperclassman who’ll buy you and Scott cheap beer.”

“Hi, I’m the Beacon Hills Sheriff,” his dad says mildly. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, but I kind of discourage underage drinking.”

“Shh, honey,” Claudia says, pressing her palm over John’s mouth. “Just shh.”

Stiles looks at both of them seriously. “I’ll miss both of you. Will you be okay in the house without me?”

“Will we survive without you around to re-wire the microwave to work at four times the maximum voltage capacity and blow a hole in the wall?” John asks. “Gee, son, I _just_ don’t know.”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles laughs, releasing them. “I get it, I’m a menace. This is me, setting you free – you’ve done your duty, I’m 18, I’m in college. Hit the road. But seriously, text me when you get home or I’m calling every deputy in the county at midnight.”

The text comes in around 11:30. _We’re home. Proud of you. Love you, forever and a day._

**October, Fourth Year of Talia Hale’s First Term**

Stiles wakes up before his alarm the next day. The late-autumn sunlight filters in through his blinds, shining dully off Scott’s hair where his best friend is stretched out, still fast asleep. He takes a quick Snapchat of himself almost touching Scott’s ear with his tongue and sends it off to Allison, then picks his way over the organized chaos that takes up most of the floor of his room and heads out to the kitchen.

Lydia, predictably, is the only one awake. She’s sipping coffee and looking over the multi-colored mess on his kitchen table, ignoring Isaac and Malia’s snores from the couch and armchair.

“Morning,” Stiles says quietly, kissing the side of her head. “How’d you sleep? Guest bedroom okay?”

“Just fine,” she says, squeezing him with one arm. “Kira talks in her sleep. In Japanese. It’s very cute. I got coffee and bagels – don’t look at me like that, I woke Isaac up and made him go with me.”

Stiles pours coffee and digs through his pantry for peanut butter. “How long have you been up?”

“Since six,” she says, moving a Post-it from one region of the table to another. “How are you doing with all of this?”

Stiles spreads peanut butter onto half a bagel and takes a seat by the area dedicated to incidents they think B6-13 has played a part in – the car bombs in L.A. six years ago, the disappearance of BryanAir Flight 813 last September, the abduction of Amy Madeline back before any of them were even born. He sets his coffee down over _Saudi Ambassador to US goes missing, three months ago_. “I have no idea. I don’t even know where to start. I keep having these flashbacks to little moments with her from when I was growing up, when I was _so certain_ that she loved me, when she was my _mom_ in every sense of the word. It never occurred to me to wonder if I actually knew who she was, and now I…I feel like everything I’ve ever known in my entire life has been called into question.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Lydia sniffs. “You can be certain of me and Scott, at the very least.”

“Can I?” Stiles frays the edges of _Senator Harvey dies from unexplained cardiac arrest, 18 years ago_. “I met Scott because I decided to go to Stanford. I decided to go to Stanford because my mom stayed up with me the night before the commitments were due, making lists of pro’s and con’s. I met _you_ because I deferred my last semester of law school to work on the Hale campaign. My mom was one of the first people to tell me that if I wanted to be in politics, I needed to get campaign experience. With the connections she must have – she could be the _reason_ Deaton hired me. How do I know that she hasn’t been orchestrating my entire life behind the scenes, even after I thought she’d died?”

“It’s way too early for this conversation,” Scott says, stumbling past the table in his boxers and Stiles’ red hoodie. “Coffee?”

“It’s eight o’clock, it’d be business hours if this wasn’t a Saturday,” Lydia says, redirecting him towards the carafe. “You can’t think like that, Stiles. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

“I can’t _stop_ thinking like that,” Stiles moans. “I mean, for the love of God, I still pay someone to keep the Jeep that she drove in working condition, parked in the garage of their old house which I _still haven’t sold_ even though I haven’t been there in over three years.”

Lydia stares at him. “Stiles, that’s just not healthy. Or practical.”

“Yeah, well, might turn out to be practical, since she’s alive and might want it back at some point. Dear God, I would give _anything_ to wake up and have it be two days ago.”

“Anyone up?” Allison calls quietly, sticking her head around the doorframe. “I used Scott’s key. I brought stuff for pancakes!”

Stiles looks at the B6-13-information-bedazzled table in concern, but Lydia’s on it – she darts toward the couch, pulls the blanket off of Isaac, and throws it over the length of the kitchen table. A single Post-it flutters off the edge and down towards Allison’s feet, but she picks it up and stuffs it into Scott’s pocket without looking when he comes over to give her a sleepy kiss hello and mumbles that he’s going to take a shower.

“Work stuff?” Allison says, nodding her head at the blanket-covered table.

"Sorry,” Stiles says sheepishly. 

“No worries,” she smiles, making a big show out of giving the table a wide berth as she heads into the kitchen. “Where’s your griddle?”

“Do I have a griddle?” Stiles asks, following her.

“I thought you’d say that,” she laughs, pulling a griddle out of her oversized tote bag. “I always travel prepared.”

"Prepared for pancakes? I can see why Scott likes you. Want coffee?”

“Sure, thanks,” she says, plugging her griddle into the wall and unpacking her grocery bag. “Although I certainly hope Scott likes me for more than just pancakes at this point. Hopefully all of you like me for more than just pancakes, actually. It’s been two and a half years, after all.”

“One of us, one of us,” Stiles chants, adding a bit of milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon to a mug and sliding it in front of her.

“Yeah? Is that why there’s a blanket on your kitchen table?” She stops in the middle of separating an egg and turns to Stiles with regret on her face and yolk in her hands. “Sorry! Sorry – you know I didn’t mean that, right? Scott had the talk with me about not asking too many questions _ages_ ago, and I’m _honestly_ fine with it, I _know_ you guys do stuff that you can’t talk about.”

“It’s fine, Ally,” Stiles assures her, pushing her hands over the bowl so she can let the yolk drop. “You’ve been awesome about all of this since the beginning. It’s one of the many reasons we advocate Scott keeping you around, actually. Pancakes and willful ignorance.”

“Okay,” she says doubtfully, going back to her recipe. Stiles watches her work for a few minutes. Since when have pancakes involved fresh cream? He’s clearly been doing something wrong for the past 28 years.

“Hey, are you still doing okay?” He asks as she splits the batter between four different bowls and starts folding a different berry into each. “We haven’t talked about the Kate thing in awhile.”

As expected, Allison’s face shutters. This might be one of the aspects Stiles feels worst about. Letting Allison, a bona fide, real-life Disney princess, believe that her favorite aunt tried to kill the President of the United States is just plain painful. Scott still freaks out about it at least once a month, convinced that Allison will break up with him if she ever finds out.

“Not much to talk about, is there?” She says, clearly uncomfortable. “Nothing’s changed. No one’s even seen her. Every family has a black sheep, right?”

The statement hits Stiles like an anvil to the skull, and he’s saved by Lydia appearing at his elbow and moving in to take up a spatula. She moves like an extra set of hands for Allison in the kitchen – Stiles still finds it hard to believe that they’ve only known each other for a few years. He slowly backs out of the kitchen, taking his coffee with him, only stopping when Allison calls a sharp, “Stilinski!”

He looks over, and she’s got her eyes narrowed and is pointing a spatula at him.

“Lick my boyfriend’s ear again and we’re going to have a serious problem.”

**November, Freshman Year at Stanford (10 year ago)**

“I’m dying,” Stiles groans, holding the seatbelt away from his uncomfortably distended stomach. “I’m actually dying. I may already be dead.”

“No one _forced_ you to eat a fifth slice of pie,” his mom says, glancing back at him in the rearview mirror.

“There were five kinds of pie!” Stiles exclaims. “I couldn’t _not_ eat one slice of each. It would have been pie-ist. Flavor-ist?”

“It would have been smart _est_ not to make yourself sick.”

“Aw, leave the kid alone, Clo,” the Sheriff says, leaning across the center console from the passenger seat to press a kiss to his wife’s cheek. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

"Yes! Thank you! It’s Thanksgiving!” Stiles agrees, surreptitiously unbuttoning his pants and nearly moaning in relief at the release of pressure. “It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m a college kid on a meal plan. Have you _seen_ what they serve us in the Stanford dining halls? I need to eat my weight in delicious food now, otherwise I’ll waste away to nothing by Christmas.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Claudia says sarcastically, rubbing at her forehead. It’s a small gesture, but John’s hand is on the back of her neck within seconds, pressing gently on either side of her spine.

“You okay, hon?” He asks quietly, like Stiles won’t be able to hear the conversation taking place an arm’s length from his seat if there’s a ten-decibel decrease.

“Yeah,” she says, flashing John a smile. “Just a little headache.”

“Like the ones you’ve been getting?”

“What ones you’ve been getting?” Stiles asks, sitting up sharply and causing the seatbelt to dig into his stomach.

“It’s nothing, Bug,” his mom answers. She brings the car to a stop at a red light and twists in her seat, snaking a hand back to cup the side of his face. “Just a few tension headaches since the start of the school year. I’ve got a few students who are particularly spirited.”

“ _I_ was a spirited kid,” Stiles says, leaning into her palm. God, he doesn’t care if he’s legally an adult and supposed to have a modicum of independence now – his mom is _awesome_. “You’ve got experience. Seriously, are you okay?”

“Of course Iahh lebuh,” his mom says, her voice slurring incomprehensibly over the last few words. She frowns a crooked little frown.

His dad laughs. “I thought I was the one who’d had too much to drink?”

“Iahh lebuh,” Claudia says again, the frown deepening on one side of her face. The hand on Stiles’ cheek falls limply into her lap.

“Mom?”

“Claudia,” his dad says as the car starts to inch forward, reaching a hand over to the wheel. “The light’s still red.”

“Mom?” Stiles repeats, his voice rising an octave and a half when her right eye goes unfocused. He grabs the hand in his lap, and it’s limp and slack. “ _Mom_?”

Stiles hears the horn and registers the headlights blaring in through the driver’s side window like they’re miles and miles away, but the crash hits him like it’s coming from within his own body. He feels weightless, then disoriented, then nothing.

 

***

“Ischemic stroke,” the doctor repeats gently, as though saying the words kindly detracts from their terrifying nature. He circles an area on the scan. “The thrombus formed here, in one of the major vessels supplying blood to the brain. The right side of Claudia’s body would have been unresponsive, which probably caused her foot to slip off the pedal and your car to roll forward into traffic.”

“Will she be okay?” John croaks, and Stiles reaches over to lace his fingers through his dad’s.  Their hands rest on the scratchy hospital blanket.

The doctor starts speaking again, still in that calm and gentle tone that, more than anything, makes Stiles want to launch himself over his father’s bed and strangle him with bare and bruised hands. “A large portion of your wife’s brain was without oxygen for almost forty-five minutes, Mr. Stilinski. I was able to clear the clot and restore circulation, but that sort of deprivation has catastrophic effects on brain function. Even if she were to wake up, she wouldn’t be the person you remember. She’ll have little to no autonomy for the rest of her life.”

***

 

She does wake up, though – once. A feather-light touch on his arm rouses him back to wakefulness from where he’d fallen asleep in the chair next to her bed, and she has just enough time to tell him to be brave and strong and good, that she loves him forever and a day, before the machines she’s hooked into start going haywire and the code team comes running in.

 

***

 

Three days later, a team of doctors officially declares Claudia Stilinski braindead. They tell John that he has a terrible decision to make, and ask if there’s anyone else they should call. Claudia’s parents, maybe, or siblings.

“No,” Stiles says, voice broken and hoarse, when his dad can’t answer. “It’s just us. We’re all she has.”

 

***

 

Eight days after Thanksgiving, John signs a piece of paper and nods at a doctor. Two tiny, mundane motions, and then the machines keeping Stiles’ mom alive stop whirring and clicking and beeping. It’s cold and slow and it _hurts_ in a way that Stiles has been completely unaware of until this exact moment, and he can feel some part of himself turning to stone.


	2. after all the dreaming, i come home again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sloppy,” criticizes a voice from the side of the ring. “Your uppercut’s gone all to shit.”
> 
> Derek looks around for the source of the critique and catches a glancing blow off his cheekbone from Luke for his trouble. Daniel Masterson, his old Air Force co-captain, is leaning casually against the ropes of his Fox & Hole ring and grinning up at him. “Honestly, Hale,” he continues. “Didn’t your SO teach you better than that?”

**October, Year Four of Talia Hale’s First Term**

“Sloppy,” criticizes a voice from the side of the ring. “Your uppercut’s gone all to shit.”

Derek looks around for the source of the critique and catches a glancing blow off his cheekbone from Luke for his trouble. Daniel Masterson, his old Air Force co-captain, is leaning casually against the ropes of his Fox & Hole ring and grinning up at him. “Honestly, Hale,” he continues. “Didn’t your SO teach you better than that?”

“Daniel!” Derek lisps through his mouthguard, shaking out of his gloves and spitting the piece of rubber into his palm.  “What are you doing here?”

“Your office told me this is where you’d be – something about you spending every lunch and most nights here since you got back in town?”

“Yeah, I’ve had some…stuff. To work out. Pent-up stuff.” Derek says, “Long story. But I meant what are you doing _here_ , in DC?”

Daniel ducks between the ropes and lets himself into the ring, taking a few playful swipes at Derek before clapping him into a quick hug. “It’s a long story, bud, but it looks like I’m going to be in town for awhile.”

“What do you mean?” Derek leads the way over to his corner, toweling off.

"Got transferred to Andrews,” Daniel says, shaking Luke’s hand when the agent gets his gloves off. “I actually thought you might’ve had something to do with it, although judging from the look on your face, you don’t have a clue either.”

“I wouldn’t have asked for you to be pulled out of Vandenberg, you loved it there,” Derek says. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we’re going to be in the same time zone again, but I wasn’t involved. Hey, what are you doing now – want to grab lunch? There’s a taco place around the corner, and I don’t need to be back at work until two.”

Daniel checks his watch. “Sure, I’ve got time. Plus, I need all the details on why you made an ass of yourself on live TV last week.”

 

***

 

“You’re worse than my sisters,” Derek says, stealing one of Daniel’s corn tortillas. “I didn’t think that was actually possible.”

"Perks of having me back in town, Kingpin,” Daniel grins around a mouthful of salsa.

“God, _Kingpin_ ,” Derek groans. “No one’s used my callsign since –.”

“Since you pansied out and went civilian?”

Derek almost chokes on his water. “ _Definitely_ worse than my sisters.”

“Eh, you just need to get desensitized to me again,” Daniel says. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

Derek _actually_ chokes on his water this time. “What?”

“Don’t even try, King. We’ve dug ditches for each other too many times for me to not know _exactly_ what your shit smells like. Who’s the guy?”

“I run all of Hale Enterprises DC now,” Derek says. “It’s really fascinating, actually –.”

“Cool, tell me about it later. Who’s the guy?”

“Is Sarah moving with you?” Derek tries again, pointing to the ring on Daniel’s left hand.

“She’ll be here in two months, once she finishes work on her current project. Who’s the guy?”

“My fiancé tried to shoot my mom in the head,” Derek offers. “Let’s talk about _that_.”

“All in due time. Who’s the guy?”

Derek lets all the air in his lungs out in a huff. “It doesn’t matter. He’s probably never going to speak to me again.”

Daniel cocks an eyebrow. “Unless he’s a high school student, I seriously doubt he plans on holding that sort of grudge.”

“Daniel, we don’t have to –.”

“Hold it,” Daniel says, raising a hand. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, I was the second person _ever_ outside your family that you came out to. True?”

“True,” Derek agrees cautiously, not sure where this is headed.

“And during your four years in the Air Force, we saw each other naked more times than I can count and saved each other’s lives almost as many times as we saw each other naked. True?”

“I think you might be vastly exaggerating our service record,” Derek says wryly.

“Yeah?” Daniel says. “Are _you_ telling your family stories about the eight months we spent on the Syria-Jordan-Iraq border? Because I’m sure as hell not. So, we’ve saved each other’s lives. True?”

Derek forces his memories down and away. “True.”

“Great. And unless you have something to tell me, we and all the guys in our unit have matching tattoos declaring us brothers for life. True?”

“True,” Derek says

“One last thing, then,” Daniel says. “I’ve seen you have crushes, I’ve seen you unrequited, I’ve seen you do flings. I’ve never seen you do _that_.”

When Derek looks up, Daniel is pointing at Derek’s straw – the remnants of Derek’s straw, really, since he’s shredded it beyond recognition into a pile of tiny plastic spears.

“So,” Daniel says, leaning across the table. “Who’s the guy?”

Derek sighs and stabs one of the little spears into the rest of his guacamole. “His name is Stiles.”

 

***

 

The text from Stiles comes five days later, when it’s been a full two weeks since the debate and Derek’s disastrous first attempt at barfing his emotions all over someone.

 

  ** _Stiles Stilinski (10:36PM)_ ** _I think we should talk._

 

Derek drops his phone in surprise, then nearly breaks screen by typing too heavily, then forces himself to rewrite his response seven times before sending.

 

 **_Me (10:39PM)_ ** _I’d like that. When and where?_

 **_Stiles Stilinski (10:40PM)_ ** _Now? Your place?_

Derek frowns. He’s still in his office, and Daniel’s been crashing on his couch while his apartment on the base gets set up.

 

 **_Me (10:40PM)_ ** _I’m still at work, but your place is on the way back. Can I stop by instead?_

Derek drums his fingers on his desk. He _hates_ texting. It gives you all this time to think about what the other person is thinking instead of making you just _talk_ to each other.

 

 **_Stiles Stilinski (10:42PM)_ ** _My place is no good. Fox & Hole, 11:15? _

**_Me (10:42PM)_ ** _Are we talking or fighting?_

He sends the text before he’s even really thought it through. What if Stiles gets offended by that? It’s supposed to be a joke, but God knows the last time they were in a ring together, it hadn’t exactly been conducive to open communication.

 

 **_Stiles Stilinski (10:43PM)_ ** _It’s us. The two aren’t mutually exclusive._

Derek chuckles a little, and feels like his lungs might be working properly for the first time since New Orleans.

 

 **_Me (10:44PM)_ ** _See you soon._

***

 

Derek trades phrases with the Fox & Hole gatekeeper, who doubles as the host for the 24-hour Thai restaurant that’s situated directly on top of the boxing gym, at 11:16 and makes his way to the backroom elevator. He fidgets on the ride down, tugging on his cuffs, his collar, his watchstrap, thankful that he was able to persuade Luke and Chen to stay in the car _just this once_. When he steps out onto the Fox  & Hole sublevel, the gym is almost completely dark – there’s just Stiles, sitting on the floor of the sole lit ring, in jeans and a plaid shirt and looking younger than Derek ever remembers seeing him.

“Hey,” Stiles says as Derek approaches. He doesn’t get up.

“Hey,” Derek says back. He rolls into the ring, feeling exceptionally overdressed and stupid in his suit and shiny shoes while Stiles is sitting there in Chucks that appear to be one good puddle away from retirement and the thick-framed, black glasses that he only wears when he’s exhausted.

Derek hates that he knows these little details about Stiles. You can’t fall out of love with someone when your mind still colors him _human, unique, wonderful_ , _real_.

“Thanks for coming,” Stiles says. 

“Thanks for texting.” Derek takes up a seat next to him, leaning back against the ropes. Stiles doesn’t speak again immediately, so Derek just sits – after two months of spending almost every minute together and then a two-week drought, he’ll settle for companionable silence.

“I think that we should be friends,” Stiles says, and Derek’s not sure if his heart is inflating or shattering. Maybe a bit of both. It’s definitely doing something uncomfortable.

“Oh,” is what he says.

“No, I don’t – shit,” Stiles says. “Sorry. I had this worked out in my head. I don’t mean it like, _let’s be friends_. I mean it like – like, we’ve never really _been_ friends, right? Not both of us at the same time, anyway. I was in love with you on your mom’s campaign from, like, the get-go, and then we were screwing, and then you broke me, and then we hated each other, and then you loved me, and here we are.”

“I’ve never _hated_ you,” Derek says. “I wanted to kill you fairly frequently when we first met, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually _hated_ you.”

“Well, two points for Hale, then,” Stiles says, flipping him off with both hands but not really putting any heart behind it. He rubs at his eyes under his glasses after, and Derek notices the dark bags behind them that look permanently etched into his skin. “Look. I’m not saying it’s going to lead to anything more. I’m not even saying that it’ll work for us to be friends at all, I’m just… _if_ I was ever going to believe that we could be _more_ than friends again, I think we have to start _at_ friends and go from there.”

“Build a foundation,” Derek says, and Stiles latches onto it like a lifeboat.

“Yes, exactly, thank you, a foundation,” Stiles says, slapping Derek’s knee. His hand doesn’t linger for even a fraction of a second longer than necessary, but Derek still feels the contact reverberate up his spine. “I just…I want to you know that I think I may have overreacted to what you did at the debate two weeks ago. We’d been building up to _something_ and it all just sort of exploded in that minute in the dressing room. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, and I shouldn’t have walked out.”

“Oh, you _definitely_ should have yelled at me,” Derek says. “What you said about how I quit the race – it was all exactly true. I didn’t think about the impact it would have on my campaign team or how it might hurt my mom’s chances. I did the right thing but in the worst _possible_ way, and you were probably the only person who stood a chance of making me see that.”

“That’s life on a campaign team, though,” Stiles says. “One day you're full-steam ahead, the next day you're nonexistent. And your mom’s still, what, twelve points up and we’re two and a half weeks from the election? If anything, you should be insulted that you had so _little_ impact on her numbers.”

“I’m serious, Stiles,” Derek pleads, and it’s like every rendition of this conversation he’s had with Laura and Cora and his parents and Daniel has been in preparation to take this olive branch Stiles is offering and make good on it. “You were right about the election stuff, and, I mean, I wish you hadn’t left, but you were probably right to do that, too. I just _sprang_ all of my feelings on you after trying to convince both of us that they didn’t exist for so long – I can’t blame you for reacting the way you did. For not believing me.”

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t believe you, Derek. I meant what I said about you loving me not being enough,” Stiles says, his long fingers glowing eerily in the dim lighting as he gesticulates. “My life is insanely, _unbelievably_ fucking complicated right now. I’m too tired to put any energy into hating you. I need something…normal. And I think – I hope – I _want_ us being friends to be normal. And maybe we can take it from there.”

Derek chews on his bottom lip. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles side-eyes him. “Honestly? Because – I mean – ‘friends’ isn’t really what you want, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Derek says bluntly. Best to rip off the Band-Aid, probably. Lying to Stiles certainly hasn’t done anything for him in the past, might as well try brutal honesty. “But if it’s what _you_ want, I’ll try. We can…loan each other books again. Get coffee. Spar, if we both wind up here at the same time. I promise not to ask you out for…a year.” 

Stiles snorts. “A _year_?”

Derek nods sagely. “I’m playing the long game. I won’t ask you out for a year, and will then ask you out once a month, every month, until you say yes.”

Stiles laughs a little more. “Once a month, every month?”

“Yup. In fact,” Derek says, digging his phone out of his pocket and typing in his passcode, “I’m going to put it in my calendar. A year from today, on October 16th, I’m asking you out, Stiles Stilinski, and it will involve flowers and curly fries and possibly trumpeters. And if you decline, I’ll be back on November 16th.”

Stiles is openly laughing now, color dancing across his cheeks. “So this is your game? This is Derek Hale wooing someone?”

“This is Derek Hale _planning_ how to woo someone a year in advance,” Derek corrects. “In the interim twelve months, I’ll just focus on kicking your ass at boxing and Call of Duty.”

 

**August, Talia Hale’s Presidential Campaign (4.16 years ago)**

“We _have_ to start talking about it,” Stiles protests, feeling like this is one of those moments when slamming your fist on the table is probably actually appropriate. He doesn’t care if this is only his third meeting with the senior campaign team staff as the official Hale for America press secretary – all the more reason to stick to his guns. “Matthews and Talbot both made statements about it _two days_ ago; she’s the _only_ candidate who doesn’t have a stance on the conflict in Saudi Arabia.”

“We’re not _ready_ to put out a statement, Stiles,” Deaton says again. “There’s not enough information. The incumbent administration hasn’t made a statement either. If Senator Hale supports staying out of the Middle East and President Stark then says that he’s sending troops in, we look like spineless liberals who don’t care enough to be active in world affairs. If Senator Hale advocates getting involved and President Stark then says we’re staying out of it per the Whitehall Convention, Talbot and Matthews will both latch on to our generous foreign spending policies and say we’re sending even _more_ money out of the country.”

“And if Senator Hale happens to support the same side as Stark, it just looks like we waited to get inside information from the Stark administration,” adds Willow, their Operations/Research lead.

“And if we wait until after Stark says something and then go along with whatever he says, Talia just looks like a follower,” concludes Peter, who, as far as Stiles can tell, is just pretending to be their Policy Director while really taking the opportunity to be smarmy with the big donors and sleazy with the young female volunteers. “Remind me why you’re here again, kid? Are you even old enough to vote?”

“Enough, Peter,” Talia sighs. She makes a note on one of the speeches she’s reading through. “Stiles is here because he’s proven multiple times that he’s the only person on this team capable of getting the press to focus on something _besides_ my lack of male genitalia.”

“If we don’t pick a side on this soon, your genitalia might be all they’re talking about, Senator,” Stiles says. “This is the only current issue up for debate where the Armed Forces and our involvement overseas are concerned. If Talbot had kept quiet, they’d just have said that he’s a thoughtful man who wanted time to take all the potential outcomes into consideration. If you don’t say anything, you’re an indecisive woman who can no sooner choose whether to send our boys to war than she can decide between which pair of shoes she wants to wear that day.”

In the silence that follows, Stiles wonders if _maybe_ he’s gone too far. Then Peter starts laughing. “Oh, I like him. Can we keep him, Talia? Please?”

 

***

 

“Your uncle is kind of a douchebag,” Stiles says, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from Cora’s hand. He takes a swig, grimaces, takes another, and hands it back before kicking his shoes into a corner and collapsing on the bed. “Ow, Derek, move your elbow – seriously, a douchebag. If I hear one more comment about how I’m some sort of pre-pubescent Muppet who has no business being on a presidential campaign, I’m going to drive back to Palo Alto, get my lacrosse stick, drive back, and shove it up his ass so far that he’ll have to put permanent Stormtrooper backdoors in all his pants for the net.”

All three Hale siblings are silent for a minute.

Cora says, “That’s oddly specific.”

“Yeah, you really paint a picture with your words, there, don’t you?” Laura adds.

 

***

 

A week later, President Stark announces that the US will not respond to the escalating tensions in Saudi Arabia with force, in accordance with the agreements outlined by the Whitehall Convention.

“Talia supports the guidelines set by international governance policies,” Peter says loudly, talking over Willow. “She can’t very well say that she’d go _against_ Whitehall now. The UN would have a field day.”

“The UN’s not electing her,” Willow snaps. “The _country_ is. And if you’d actually let us make our statement on Monday like Stiles and I _wanted_ to, she’d have been seen as an independent, strong-willed leader. Now when she comes out in favor of Stark’s plan, she’s just following herd mentality.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Deaton says. “There’s great strength in the pack.”

“Except she’s running for President of the United States, not Fifth Chorus Girl in Stars Hollow High’s production of _The Music Man_ ,” Stiles returns. “What if…what if we stick to the drafted statement and she still comes out in opposition?”

“Opposition to Stark? _Now_?” Willow gapes.

“You want Democratic Senator Talia Hale to stand up in front of the country and say that she’d flaunt the Whitehall Convention and send troops in to settle Saudi Arabia, a country with whom the US has been at peace for a very, very long time?” Peter asks, his eyes narrowed.

“It’s not about what _I_ want, it’s about what _she_ would do,” Stiles says, turning to face Talia directly. She’s always quiet in these late-night strategy meetings, preferring to let her senior staff hash out the plans and fallouts and implications and contingencies before giving her opinion and settling any unresolved questions. Sometimes Stiles thinks that she’s just doing it to evaluate them, feeling out their strengths and weaknesses, learning where they complement one another. “You’re the one running, Senator, and this might be the only issue of true international import that carries weight during the election. I think you should tell us what you would _actually_ do if you were already in office, and we’ll take it to the writing team and I’ll spin it as best I can.”

 

***

 

“I think your mom has a voyeur kink,” Stiles says, bursting into Cora’s hotel room and finding, as per usual, the three Hale siblings on their individual laptops while CNN plays on mute in the background. “For me and Deaton and Peter and Willow. Not anything sexual, obviously, but just, like, _watching_ us debate and fight over things.”

“Use any combination of the words ‘your mom,’ ‘voyeur,’ and ‘kink’ in a sentence again and you’ll need your own Stormtrooper backdoor pants,” Derek says, offering Stiles a carton of Waadii. “Tibs?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says, accepting the carton and sniffing it suspiciously.

“Ethiopian food. Laura was getting bored,” Derek explains, and Laura gives a distracted little wave without looking away from whatever she’s working on.

“Might as well give it a try, since I’m going to be up all night,” Stiles sighs. “We finally got your mom and Peter to agree on a message for the Saudi Arabia thing, so now I get to corral the writers at – oh, great, 10PM, that’s an awesome time to start working on something that requires delicate delivery.”

“ _You_ require delicate delivery,” Derek says.

“Dude, seriously?” Stiles asks. “That’s the best you can do?”

Derek shrugs. “It’s been a long day. _Someone_ got me up at 5AM for our morning run so that he’d have time to watch the Mets game he DVR-ed before the busses left.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell it to someone who cares,” Stiles says. “Okay, I’m going to go call my dad while it’s still a decent hour on the west coast and then make _your_ dad start editing remarks. See you guys in the morning.”

“Bye,” Laura and Cora chorus automatically.

“Tell the Sheriff I say hi,” Derek adds.

 

***

 

“You’re very good at this, you know,” a voice says into Stiles’ ear as he watches Talia take questions on her statement condemning President Stark’s decision.

“Ah! Why – _why_?” Stiles asks, startling and pawing at the side of his head. “Why, Peter? We’ve talked about the whole sneaking-up-on-people thing.”

“We’re backstage at a debate, Stiles, it seems prudent to be quiet.” Peter moves to stand directly next to him, his eyes glinting in the spotlight scatter.

“Quiet, yes. Weeping Angels-level stealth, not necessary.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Yet another reason you are a massively tragic individual,” Stiles says, knocking his clipboard against his hip. “C’mon, moderator, move this along. We’ve got four more topics to cover and only fifteen minutes left. Did you say something?”

“Merely a compliment,” Peter says, and Stiles tries not to notice that Peter is looking at him with the same off-putting twinkle he sometimes uses to pick up women. Peter may flirt slimily with the campaign’s volunteers, but he never takes it beyond that – they’ve all seen him locate age-appropriate women of the week when the travel schedule keeps them in one city for a few days, though. “I said that you’re very good at this.”

“Well, thank you,” Stiles says. “I try to be my best. Another reference you probably don’t get.”

“There are a lot of things about you that I don’t quite ‘get,’ in truth,” Peter admits. “Why you’re hung up on my nephew, for one.”

Stiles, thankfully, has the presence of mind to turn his headset off. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, it’s terribly obvious to everyone. With the notable exception of Derek, of course. I already had my suspicions, but word got out that you and Cora traded lists of exes and yours featured people of both the male and female varieties.”

“This is an _incredibly_ inappropriate place to be having this conversation,” Stiles says. “I work for your sister.”

“And you visually dry-hump my sister’s son whenever you think he’s not looking,” Peter says. “Fascinating little conundrum you’re in. Do you think he returns your affections?”

“There’s a line, Peter, and you are six or seven steps over it right now,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. He remembers all too well how Derek had been visibly uncomfortable when he and Cora compared ex-lovers and he’d let the hey-I’m-bisexual bomb drop. He remembers Derek looking at him like even being _asked_ if he was gay was the most offensive thing that had happened to him that year, back in the first week Derek joined them on the campaign trail. No, he’s pretty sure this crush is about as unrequited as it’s possible for a crush to be.

“I’ve dabbled, you know,” Peter says lightly. “And if your appetite could be whetted by just _any_ Hale, I’d gladly –.”

“ _And_ we’re done,” Stiles says, spinning on his heel and walking away. He’ll watch the rest of the debate from the closed-circuit monitors in the staging area.

“Think about it,” Peter calls after him, and oh _God_ it’s going to takes _weeks_ to scrub that unbidden mental image out of his brain.

 

***

 

It’s a bus night. Stiles travels with the senior staff these days and the Hales are in the family bus, so he can’t find the Hale siblings in a hotel room – instead, he settles into his little bunk with his laptop on his chest and opens their group gchat.

           

 **heyitsstiles** : your uncle’s a douchebag

 **derek.s.hale** : you’ve mentioned that before

 **coranator:** does sound familiar

 **haleyeahlaura:** what’d he do this time?

 **heyitsstiles** : i’m pretty sure he propositioned me. it might have been a joke. if i sue your family for therapy if a few years, this is probably where it started.

 **haleyeahlaura:** oh god. _i_ might need therapy.

 **heyitsstiles** : i’m trying to decide if i should be anything other than creeped out. maybe flattered? he’s a relatively attractive guy, i guess.

 **haleyeahlaura** : yeah okay now i definitely need therapy.

 **coranator** : me too. maybe we can get a family discount.

_< derek.s.hale is not online>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore all of you. Unconditionally. Two chapters today to prove my love!
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Rain King by Counting Crows.


	3. in the daylight, anywhere feels like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles looks up at his mother, and God, it’s like every happy moment from his childhood and every second of devastation that came after the crash is putting their weight behind this single strike to his kidneys. She’s still beautiful, still has the same flowing auburn hair, still doesn’t look like she’s anywhere near old enough to have a son his age.
> 
> “I could have led with ‘Why did the secret group of domestic government spies you’re in charge of try to kill the President of the United States a year ago?’ but I didn’t want to come on too strong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There is some pretty dark and violent imagery coming up in the flashback part of this chapter. It's canon-level for both Teen Wolf and Scandal, but PLEASE proceed with caution if you've got blood, child abuse, or human trafficking-related shadows lurking in your mind. I'm putting in START TRIGGER WARNING and END TRIGGER WARNING markers, and there'll be a summary of what you skip in the end notes. Take care of yourselves, my loves!

**January, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

Stiles is in shock. At least, he’s pretty sure this is shock – he should probably remember what it feels like from getting shot a year ago, but the thing about shock is that it’s basically specifically designed to keep you from remembering what’s happening. So how does anyone really know what shock feels like? Do they purposefully put people into shock and make them try to describe what they’re going through? Maybe he should ask Allen about this.

Okay, so, he’s rambling. Internally. But he’s also sitting on a bench in a usually-deserted park waiting for his very-not-dead mother to show up, so the fact that he’s having any sort of cognizant thought at all should probably be applauded.

When she does appear, she’s being tugged along by a chocolate Lab, and Stiles is so distracted by the dog nosing into the palm of his hand and snuffling enthusiastically that he almost forgets to be angry.

“Who’s this?” He asks, tugging off his glove so the dog can get a better scent.

“That’s what you want to ask me? Ten years, and you want to know the dog’s name?”

Stiles looks up at her, and God, it’s like every happy moment from his childhood and every second of devastation that came after the crash is putting their weight behind this single strike to his kidneys. She’s still beautiful, still has the same flowing auburn hair, still doesn’t look like she’s anywhere near old enough to have a son his age.

“I could have led with ‘Why did the secret group of domestic government spies you’re in charge of try to kill the president of the United States a year ago?’ but I didn’t want to come on too strong.”

She actually has the audacity to laugh. “You haven’t changed, Bug.”

Stiles sits up straight, and the dog whines at the loss of petting. “I’ve changed. Burying both your parents before you’re 25 has a way of changing a person. And don’t call me that.”

“I called you that for eighteen years,” Claudia says, sitting next to him.

“You lost the right to call me that when you let me spend the last decade thinking you were dead.”

“Is that why we’re here? To drudge up old wounds? Malia said you wanted to talk business.”

Stiles stalls for time by playing with the dog’s ears. “I know that B6-13 framed Kate Argent for the assassination attempt.”

Stiles can _feel_ the air shift. It’s a palpable weight that settles squarely over his shoulders.

“Tread carefully, Stiles,” his mother says. “You’re very new to this territory you’re stepping into, and I’d hate for you to get hurt.”

“I know that B6-13 framed Kate Argent, and I know that B6-13 was responsible for the shooting itself,” Stiles bulls forward.

“Do you think I don’t _know_ that it’s your team helping Kate gallivant around South America?” Claudia says sharply. “Do you think that if I decided it was in the best interest of the country, I couldn’t have her back here in chains in a _heartbeat_?”

Stiles swallows hard.

She seems to reel herself back in, and when she speaks again, it’s in a deadly whisper. Fury distorts her features in a way that’s completely incongruous with Stiles’ memories. “We _allow_ the continued existence of your little _club_ under Malia’s supervision _only_ because you are not currently a direct threat to the stability of the country,” she says. “But my sworn duty, the one I hold most dear above all else, is the preservation of the republic, and you are coming _dangerously_ close to ringing a bell that _cannot_ be un-rung. You should very carefully consider the possible ramifications if you continue your current line of investigation.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Stiles lies. _I just have a kitchen table full of the heinous acts you’ve been tallying up over the past ten years. I might have nightmares now where all my childhood memories end in blood and murder and screaming. I only spent Christmas morning realizing that since you became Command over seven years ago, you’re the one who ordered the “gas leak” that killed that convention of environmentalists five years back._

Stiles remembers that day with startling clarity. Representatives from various environmental advocacy groups, ranging from the standard WWF and anti-logging parties to voices that were flirting hard with the dark side of eco-terrorism, had gathered in San Francisco to put together a unified platform to take to the world stage. The convention had been held in hotel about twenty minutes from Scott and Stiles’ apartment. The news of the gas leak broke on a Thursday afternoon, and Stiles and Scott had ignored their L3 readings to watch the horrifying footage as two hundred asphyxiated bodies were wheeled out, one by one.

Later that day, they’d both submitted their second semester deferral paperwork. Time to get out into the real world and try to make an actual difference.

"You’re smarter than that,” she says. “I _know_ you’re smarter than that. I raised you.”

The dog nuzzles between Stiles’ knees. He can’t really feel his fingers when he raises them to rest on the dog’s head, but whether that’s from the cold or the shock or the disbelief or the fact that he’s pretty sure his heart isn’t really pumping blood to his extremities the way it’s supposed to, he has no idea.

“Why did B6-13 want the president dead?” He asks once his brain-mouth connection starts transmitting signals again, because in addition to apparently having absolutely no sense of self-preservation and despite his mother’s testimony that she’s working for the betterment of the republic, there’s no universe in which Stiles Stilinski believes that the assassination of President Talia Hale is what’s best for the country. 

Her phone rings; she declines the call. “Who’s to say that we did?” She says, and if Stiles wasn’t sure about his cardiac output _before_ , now he _knows_ it’s fucked.

“What – what do you mean?”

She looks at him with abject disapproval, like he's asking her to sign another parental notification of disciplinary action. “Let’s play a game,” she says.

The simple phrase brings dozens of memories crashing against the mental gates he’s been carefully constructing ever since he asked Malia to set up this meeting. They’d just called it “But why?” until Stiles was old enough to realize that the question-and-answer game his mother used to insist on playing was really the Socratic method; the day Stiles called her on it (seventh grade, over hot chocolate and Scrabble), the hypothetical situations she posed shifted from things like who was going to win the World Series two years from now and onto topics like who was going to be elected the next president of Afghanistan.

 _Oh_.

“All right,” Stiles says, fighting against the swirling sense of instability he now deals with every time he finds that yet another piece of his childhood wasn’t what he thought it was. “Let’s play.”

“Are you sure you remember how?” His mother’s voice is light, teasing, and Stiles tightens his fingers in the dog’s fur just a little.

“Set the premise,” he spits.

“There is a secret organization buried deep within the US government,” she says, sounding like she’s reading from the back cover of a novel. “This group is called B6-13. B6-13 is funded through backchannels, staffed by elite personnel hand-selected from other government agencies and outside entities, and charged with doing whatever it takes to ensure the stability and supremacy of the United States of America, even if this means operating outside the confines of the legal, judicial, and moral systems that it strives to protect. Premise accepted?”

“Accepted,” Stiles says. There’s a diehard jogger two paths over from them, trudging seemingly endless laps through the layer of January snow. Stiles wonders idly if it’s actually a B6-13 agent. Maybe his mother’s going to have him killed if he can’t answer all the questions.

“Three hundred and fifty-seven days ago, B6-13 ordered an assassination attempt on President Talia Hale. Why?”

Stiles wants to scream. It’s the same question he’s been restlessly turning over in his head for all of those three hundred and fifty-seven days. He wants to scream or kick something or _throw_ something. So, he does – he wiggles his arm down between the slats of the bench, comes up with a stick, and throws. The Lab bounds after it, barking excitedly.

" _It’s never just as simple as ‘why,’” his mom says, reaching around him for a paring knife._

_“What do you mean?” Stiles asks. He’s fifteen, scrubbing potatoes in the sink, and getting frustrated with the current hypothetical: the collapse of China’s economy. “’Why’ seems to cover all the bases.”_

_“Exactly,” she says. “It’s the broadest question in the book. Narrow it down.”_

“B6-13 is charged with the protection of the republic,” he says slowly, watching the dog root around in a small snow drift. “So it stands to reason that all actions taken by B6-13 are, in some sense, designed to protect the republic.”

Claudia is silent, which used to mean that she was waiting for him to fully develop a train of thought.

“So the question isn’t ‘why,’” Stiles continues. “It’s ‘How does the assassination of the president serve the republic?’”

“Good,” she says simply, and Stiles feels a flash-bang of pride that leaves him embarrassed. The dog brings the stick back to her, and she passes it off to Stiles with a distasteful look at the slobber. “So. How does the assassination of the president serve the republic?”

“It doesn’t,” Stiles says, half on reflex. He throws the stick. “It causes massive instability. The American people tend to pull together after a tragedy, sure, but it forces the office to pass to the Vice President, and McKinney – _McKinney_? McKinney had something to do with this?”

“That’s an extremely serious allegation,” she says, deliberately not making eye contact.

“No, no, and it doesn’t make sense,” Stiles says. “McKinney doesn’t want to be president, he _never_ wanted to be president. We had to twist his arm to get him to join the ticket…so if McKinney’s not behind it, it’s…someone wanted the office _for_ McKinney. B6-13 wanted McKinney to be president? But…why?”

“Why, indeed?”

"' _Why’ is a rabbit hole, Bug,” she says, handing him a pair of socks to fold. “Do you remember Alice in Wonderland?”_

_Stiles, 7 and in the process of trying to logically determine who would win in an all-out war between ninjas and pirates, nods. “Alice chased the white rabbit and fell down the hole and kept falling and falling and falling. For ages.”_

The dog pushes the stick back into Stiles’ hands. “It’s not ‘why,’” he says again. “It’s…it’s…what does putting McKinney in the Oval do that having Hale there doesn’t? How are they different, where are they different?”

Silence from the other end of the bench. The dog whines; Stiles throws.

“Immigration,” Stiles says after a second of thought, flipping through a mental rolodex of the issues. “Healthcare. The poverty line.” He sits up straight, rolodex stuck on a card that might as well be painted bright red. “International involvement.”

More silence.

“McKinney’s always been more willing to send our troops in than other Democrats,” Stiles says slowly, trying to let his brain get to the end of each rapidly-branching thought before he cements it into words. “Talia’s position on getting involved in Saudi Arabia back during the campaign was one of the things that brought him on board. He’s been vocal about wanting to show force in the Middle East. Talia refused to commit troops to the Bahrain territory struggle, and the tensions between the eastern countries and the Crescent Alliance have only gotten worse since then. But I left the White House, I don’t know…” He trails off and looks up at her, and for the first time, she’s looking back. Stiles used to love that his amber-colored eyes were a direct reflection of his mother’s. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? B6-13, Command, _you_ – you want us to interfere. In the Crescent Conflict. You want us to interfere in a fledgling _holy war_.”

She smiles. “And?”

“And…I’m not getting out of this park alive, am I?”

She smiles wider. “Don’t be dramatic. Why would I kill you?”

“Because I _know_!” Stiles explodes. “I know about you, I know about B6-13, I know what you’re trying to do and – it’s not over, is it? The Crescent Conflict is just getting worse, and Talia’s still keeping us out of it. You’re going to try to have her killed again. There’s no way you’re just letting me _walk_ out of here with that knowledge.”

“You’re not going to talk,” she says confidently, typing something into her phone. “And even if you did, Stiles, who would believe you? You’ve already lied to the American people once about the Crescent Conflict, and anyone in power at the White House knows why you left. You’ve done a fine job of building your little empire at Stilinski & Associates, but your foundation is the righteous indignation with which you abandoned your previous post. What happens to your _unquestionable_ reliability when it comes out that you knew _exactly_ how bad things were in the Middle East back before this _conflict_ had a name, and you stood on a podium and told the entire country that it was nothing to worry about?”

She stands, and Stiles has an uncomfortably surreal moment of clarity in which he realizes that this is _exactly_ how he’d be playing this if the positions were reversed. Hell, this is how he _has_ played this, so many times – make sure both sides understand the facts, point out exactly how easily and completely he’ll discredit them if they go public. The closing step, if he needs one, is usually some sort of threat that goes beyond credential-ruining.

His mother doesn’t disappoint.

“I know about Kate, Isaac, and your history with Derek Hale,” she says. “I have Kate’s location within a 5-mile radius at any given time. You should consider Isaac a _loan_ that I may call in whenever I want. Derek…you may have succeeded at destroying the video that insipid reporter made, but there are more _persuasive_ ways to convince Talia to get with the program if she continues to disobey, and I doubt the world would miss one more privileged businessman. You, however, would miss him quite terribly. You are asking extremely dangerous questions, Stiles, and this isn’t a game anymore. You should be more careful.”

“Or what?” He fires back, blood roaring past his eardrums. “What are you doing to do, throw me in a pit for six months?”

“I presume you’re referencing Isaac’s punishment,” she says, fixing the hem of her coat. “I was wondering when we’d come around to this. Do you know _why_ he spent those months in the dark?”

“Because he was a day late coming back from assignment,” Stiles says. He cycles through Malia’s words on his balcony a few months ago. “And because his mentor was a sadomasochist.”

“Deucalion does have his peculiarities, I’ll grant you that,” Claudia agrees. “But Isaac was late because he took a job on the side. A job that took place on Election Day, four years ago.”

Stiles is going to be sick.

She takes half a step away, then pauses. “Scott. Lydia. Derek. Isaac. Laura. Cora. Kira. Allison. Jackson. Allen. Ten moves, simple for me, and I eliminate the ten people you care most about on the face of the planet. Goodbye, Stiles. I expect we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

She walks down the path, heels crunching over the gravel. Stiles, still nauseous and reeling, just barely has the presence of mind to call after her, “Your dog!”

“It’s for you!” His mother calls back, waving a hand overhead.

Stiles looks down at the Lab, who’s contentedly destroying the stick at Stiles’ feet. It notices his looking and starts thumping its tail.

Well. Fuck.

 

***

 

“She gave you a _dog_ ,” Lydia says for about the twelfth time since Stiles arrived back at the S&A office with a fairly large canine companion in tow. “Why? As an apology?”

“What’s its name?” Kira asks, laughing from her crouched position as the dog in question licks her face and whaps Scott in the side of the head with its tail.

“What’s _her_ name,” Scott corrects. “Definitely a girl. About two years old, I think. Are you going to keep her?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles says to all three questions. He’s mentally and emotionally drained right now – he needs coffee and a nap and to watch the latest _Game of Thrones_ episode.

“We should scan for a microchip and explosives,” Malia says, watching the dog with her head cocked to one side and a thoughtful expression on her face.

Kira nearly falls over, backing away from the animal so quickly. “The dog is a bomb?”

Malia gives her one of those do-you-really-want-to-know-why-I’m-suggesting-this looks, and Kira pales another few shades. But thirty minutes later Malia’s pronounced the dog explosive-free, Stiles agrees to the name Starbuck on a suggestion from Scott, Kira’s excitedly making a list of everything Stiles will need to buy, Isaac’s built a little nest of blankets in the corner of Stiles’ office, Lydia’s set out a bowl of water, and Scott’s scheduled an appointment with a vet he knows.

Once everyone calms down, Stiles gets them riled up again by giving the rundown on everything that his mom had said.

“It’s about the president not sending troops to get involved in the Crescent thing?” Scott repeats. “Hasn’t that been ramping up for years, though?”

“Objectively, it makes sense,” Lydia contributes. She has stacks of multi-colored Post-its in front of her and is classifying all the new information; Stiles will take them home at the end of the day and add them to the growing mosaic on his kitchen table. Safer to keep their little horde of information out of the office, they’d all agreed. “If I wanted the US to get into the Middle East, finding a way around Talia would be my first move.”

“We’re still missing too many pieces,” Malia chimes in. She’s using a knife to file her nails. “Why get us involved in the Crescent Conflict at all?”

“Besides the obvious violation of human rights and civilian casualties that are inherent to any war zone?” Stiles snaps, pacing an arc around three sides of the conference room. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’s wrong about trusting Malia. She’s got B6-13 convinced that she’s loyal to them, just monitoring S&A’s actions and reporting back. It’s probably the only reason they aren’t all buried deep inside Wonderland right now, but there’s something _off_ about her. Stiles used to be amazed at the functional differences between Malia and Isaac – both B6-13 agents, but Malia is apparently unscathed by her experiences while Isaac still sometimes refuses to leave his office or speak about anything other than a specific case for days on end. At moments like these, though, Stiles sees a worrying lack of basic compassion from Malia, and he thinks that Isaac’s social skills might be a significantly easier burden to bear than a fundamental absence of humanity.

“Yes, besides that,” Malia says calmly, although her knife moves a little faster.

“It’s a good question, Stiles,” Lydia agrees. “How does the republic benefit from getting involved?”

“Or, what’s the negative consequence if we _don’t_ get involved?” Scott asks.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, dropping into a chair at the head of the table and bringing his chin to rest on his fists with a sigh. “I _used_ to know. I knew everything about Bahrain and the Crescent situation when I was White House Press Secretary. But I don’t know anymore.”

Lydia purses her lips. “Well, can you find out?”

 

***

 

Derek is twelve minutes late, but he brings a new stout and looks so damn apologetic standing there in his Caps jersey that Stiles can’t even pretend to be miffed.

"I can’t believe I let you talk me into _Lolita_ ,” Derek says when Stiles lets him in. He extracts two beers from the pack and stows the rest in the fridge, moving around Stiles’ kitchen with easy familiarity after three months of using mid-week games as excuses to hang out. “I had to read half of it with my hand over my eyes. Cops were looking at me funny on the way over here, like they _knew_ that I’d been reading about pedophiles.”

“I didn’t think you’d take the suggestion seriously,” Stiles says, accepting the proffered beer as Derek passes by on his way to the couch. He goes to check on the artichoke dip, courtesy of Allison, that’s warming in the oven. “I said _Lolita_ or _Heart of Darkness_. You’re the one who read the summaries of both and apparently thought, ‘Nope, _Lolita_ , that’s the one for me.’”

“Uh, Stiles,” Derek’s voice drifts in from the living room. “Are you aware that there’s a dog on your couch? Ah!”

Stiles slams the oven shut and dashes out into the living room, to find Derek flat on his back and Starbuck sitting squarely on his chest, grinning a dog grin at Stiles. The laughter starts at Stiles’ toes and bursts out him a few seconds laughter, mixing with a little bit of hysteria somewhere along the way. “D-D-Derek, meet Starbuck. Starbuck…off? Down? Heel?”

Starbuck yips happily and lies down, completely covering Derek’s torso and legs down to mid-thigh.

“Stiles,” Derek begins in a playful growl, but Starbuck promptly flops a paw over Derek’s mouth.

Stiles can’t breathe for at least three minutes, eventually dropping to the floor and wheeze-laughing into his hands. Starbuck finally gets off Derek and comes to settle into Stiles’ lap instead, pressing the top of her head against the underside of his jaw until he stops laughing and wraps his arms around her. Devil-dog, gift from his devil-mother, whatever – he officially likes Starbuck.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, helping Stiles to his feet. Starbuck, dislodged, trots back to the couch. “That sounded a little…intense.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles insists, still a little lightheaded. “Just a long, weird day. I think I needed that. Game started?”

“Five minutes,” Derek says. “And are you ever going to finish painting? Or, possibly, _start_ painting?” He fiddles with the edge of the dropcloth covering the kitchen table.

“I’ll let you know when my boss gives me the weekend off,” Stiles says drily.

 

***

It becomes a stressful, uncomfortable routine.

Most mornings, Stiles and Starbuck go for a run. S&A continues to maintain its normal caseload – they handle three sex tapes, what turns out to be a staged abduction, six or seven drug problems, and _another_ illegitimate child of Senator Wallace’s. (Stiles makes a joke about giving him some sort of frequent customer punchcard in the Friday team debrief. Scott and Kira laugh, Lydia and Isaac do not.) At night, there’s usually at least one member of the S &A team over at Stiles’ house working on their Wonderland map. He sees Derek every few days, and they box once a week. (Scott and Derek box once. Just once. Stiles makes Bruce Banner jokes about Scott afterwards.) Every two weeks, he meets an off-duty Erica (who’s been on the president’s Secret Service detail since the DNC nomination) for coffee and gives her the same vague threat update, asking her to be particularly careful.

He doesn’t see his mother again, but he can _feel_ her watching. Photos of the people he cares about start appearing - a glossy 8x10 of Allen heading into the hospital is waiting on his desk one Tuesday morning. A polaroid of Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson on a double date is taped to the inside of his Fox  & Hole locker. An aerial view of Derek on a walk with Cora and Laura finds its way between the pages of the book he's reading. He starts getting stress-induced nightmares, then the insomnia kicks in, then he gets Allen to prescribe him Adderall – a crutch he hasn’t used since freshman year of college.

So, Stiles has a dog. His mother is alive, Command, and probably planning the next attempt on the president’s life at this very moment. There’s a war brewing across the Atlantic that Stiles doesn’t fully understand. Everyone Stiles loves is under threat of death.

It becomes Stiles’ normal. He isn’t sure what to make of that.

 

**July, Summer between L2 and L3 (5.5 years ago)**

Stiles rolls his neck as the elevator stops for the twelfth time. He’s jealous of everyone else on their way to the lobby – _they’re_ headed out for the night, as are most sane people at 7PM on a Friday. Stiles, however, is on his third coffee run of the day, and is probably looking at four more hours of work before catching the Red Line back to the dinky apartment he’s sharing with two of the other Dawson, Dawson,  & Hutch interns.

He doesn’t even _want_ to work at a law firm when he graduates, and that’s the part that’s pissing him off the most. He’s known forever that he has no interest in being just another face in a suit, taking whatever case the senior partners deign to assign him. What he and Scott had done last year to save the McCall ranch, yes, okay, awesome and kickass – but he wouldn’t get to do stuff like that in a real law firm. No, what Stiles wants to do is move to DC and get into the political side of life. He knows he’s got the mind for it, and he’s sure as hell got the passion – he and Scott even have their pie-in-the-sky dreams of deferring the second semester of L3 to get involved in the presidential campaign.

But, in the meantime, in the summer between L2 and L3, interning at a law firm it is.

Stiles doesn’t particularly mind Chicago. He judges the rate of oncoming traffic and jogs across Michigan, headed for the Starbucks off Millennium Park. The skyscrapers can be a little oppressive and he’ll always prefer oceans to lakes, but he likes the cross-section of people a city like Chicago attracts, and there’s a good music scene with lots of festivals in the summer months. He’d like it more if Scott were here instead of Atlanta for his own internship, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all –

Fuck. He is not where he’s supposed to be.

He knows this because he turned left and where he’d normally see a bus stop and a 7-11, he steps into an alley and sees a man standing over a crumpled figure. He takes a hasty step back and, of course, knocks aside an empty beer can.

Faster than he can follow, the man flies at him, and he winds up with his back pressed against the alley wall and the guy’s forearm encroaching on his airway. He kicks out, swings with his fists, tries desperately to remember something, _anything_ from one of the dozens of self-defense courses his Sherriff father had insisted he attend, but nothing comes back and his vision just gets darker and darker

 

***

 

When he wakes up, he’s naked and wrapped in saran wrap on the floor of what looks like an unfinished basement, and it’s fair to say that he is scared out of his fucking mind. The panic attack hits him _hard_ , and there’s a wad of something stuffed in his mouth that is making it exponentially worse, and in between fleeting moments of rational thought where he tries to imagine Scott here with a hand on his chest, he is drowning drowning drowning on dry land and the room is tilting and the pressure against his ribcage is a black hole

 

**[*****TRIGGER WARNING STARTS HERE. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. MOVE TO NEXT MARKER IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE*****]**

***

 

The next time he wakes up, he’s naked and wrapped in saran wrap on what looks like the same floor, and the man is sitting next to him.

Stiles is still scared out of his fucking mind, but it’s blurred, shielded somehow.

Drugs?

"That was a doozy,” says the man. “My name’s Isaac. What’s yours?”

Stiles finds that whatever was gagging him earlier has been removed. It takes several tries to bring enough moisture to his mouth to speak, and even then his throat is sore – actually, his entire body is sore. Aftermath of a prolonged panic attack.

“Stiles,” he manages to whisper. “Stiles Stilinski. I have a father, his name is John –.”

Stiles cuts off when Isaac hits him hard in the jaw and makes a tut-tutting sound. Stiles’ head swims, tears springing to his eyes probably more in response to the blood on his tongue than anything else. When his vision clears and he can focus again, he’s startled by how young Isaac appears – he can’t be much older than Stiles himself. Might be younger, even.

“Answer what you’re asked and nothing more,” Isaac says, pinning Stiles with the full force of his wide-eyed stare, and Stiles is actually thankful for the drugs because he’s pretty sure that look alone would knock him back into panicking otherwise. “What were you doing in that alley?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, spitting blood. “Nothing, I just got lost going for coffee.”

Isaac picks Stiles up by the saran wrap and lets him drop again. Arms pinioned and completely disoriented, Stiles can’t stop his skull from cracking against the ground.

“Did Command send you?”

“What?” Stiles groans before he can stop himself, and his skull impacts the ground a second time. “Ughhh, stop, please, no, I don’t know what you mean, no one sent me, I just wanted coffee, I swear.”

“Are you sure about that?” Isaac puts a hand on Stiles’ bruised jaw and uses it to forcibly turn Stiles’ head to the side. He can’t shut his eyes fast enough to block out the sight of the body from earlier, flayed open in the remains of its own saran wrap cocoon, unseeing eyes staring back at Stiles, wide blood stain leading down toward the drain.

On the off-chance Stiles gets out of this alive, he’s going to have nightmares for the rest of his life.

“I’m sure!” He half-screams, half-sobs. “I’m sure, I’m sure, no one sent me, I’m sorry, it was a mistake, I’m sorry.”

“Hush now,” Isaac says, stuffing the wad of material back in Stiles’ mouth. “I need to take care of our friend. I’ll be back for you when I’ve decided what to do.”

Stiles wouldn’t have needed the image to have nightmares. The sound of Isaac dismembering a body with a bone saw not ten feet away would have done the trick.

 

***

 

The third time he wakes up, he’s wearing pants – not his, but hey, pants are pants – and is in an apartment he doesn’t recognize. Isaac is kneeling on the floor a few feet away, laying photos out on the carpet. He doesn’t speak or acknowledge that Stiles is awake, just finishes setting up the pictures and leaves the room. Logically, Stiles knows that this is when he should be looking for an escape route, a phone, a weapon to defend himself – but the curiosity is too strong and he’s still a little out of it. He makes his wobbly way over to the photos and works his way through them. There are dozens of images, probably a hundred in all, and they paint a damning picture of Isaac’s victim (whose face is forever burned into Stiles’s mind).

Human trafficking.

He sees the man (“Bill McNoughten,” one of the pictures is captioned in neat, all-capitals writing) sign for a shipping freight, inspect his “cargo”, and abuse multiple young women in ways that have Stiles hunched over his knees and dry-heaving as he reaches the end of Isaac’s rough timeline.

“He was a bad man,” Isaac says from behind him, and Stiles spins to find Isaac offering him a glass of water. “And he would have kept getting away with it. There was never any evidence to link him to the girls or the ships, the money was always untraceable.”

Stiles accepts the water with shaking fingers. “You’re some sort of vigilante?”

Isaac laughs, and holds out something else. Two small, white tablets. “Aspirin. Your head’s going to be killing you in a minute. I’m not a vigilante, Stiles – this is my job.”

Stiles studies the tablets, obviously suspicious, but decides that if Isaac wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already. “Killing people is your job? You’re an assassin?”

“I am whatever Command tells me to be,” Isaac says, and proceeds to tell Stiles a horribly tragic and convoluted life story – about an abusive father, an absent older brother, and a man who picked Isaac up on the side of the road when he was 14 and promised to make him powerful. “That’s what B6-13 is,” Isaac says, his eyes taking on that crazy sheen that they’d had in the basement. “Power.”

B6-13, Isaac explains, is a secret faction of the US government. Committed to nothing but defending the country, respecting no laws but the ones they choose to enforce, doing whatever it takes to protect the republic from threats they don’t even realize exist.

“And McNoughten,” Stiles says, nodding toward the pictures. “How was he a threat?”

Isaac smiles, and the number of teeth involved sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine to lodge somewhere around his bladder. “He was a special project of mine,” he says. “I have a strong dislike of men who keep children in small spaces.”

“And that’s why you thought Command sent me,” Stiles says carefully. “Because this project wasn’t…B6-13-sanctioned.”

Isaac nods, looking pleased with himself, and Stiles…Stiles knows that this guy needs serious help. He’s clearly broken, painfully so, and it actually hurts Stiles a little to watch him believe so fervently in an insane story about a secret coalition of government-sponsored assassins when Stiles would bet just about anything that this poor, poor guy is suffering from major PTSD courtesy of child abuse. He targets and hunts men who remind him of his father, men taking advantage of the defenseless, and uses the conspiracy theory he’s dreamed up and named B6-13 to give it structure.

There’s sick sort of justice to it. But Isaac needs help, and Stiles, damnit, has always been the kind to get overly invested at the drop of a hat when he feels connected to people. Scott calls it loyalty, and it’s what got them through the chaos that was getting the ranch back. Stiles tells Scott that it’s even simpler than that – he’s a collector. He finds the people who need help, and he helps them.

Right now, he wants to collect Isaac.

**[*****END TRIGGER WARNING. SEE END NOTES FOR SUMMARY OF WHAT YOU SKIPPED. THANK YOU FOR RESPECTING YOUR LIMITS*****]**

***

 

Isaac lets him go home under threat of extreme pain when Stiles swears not to tell, and Stiles keeps his word. He doesn’t go to the police. He doesn’t tell his dad or Scott about it, doesn’t tell _anyone_ about it, just goes back to his daily life. He sees Isaac around the city infrequently, only a few times on street corners. Two more members of the Chicago elite go “missing,” with evidence tying them to heinous crimes manifesting posthumously. There’s a two-week stretch where Stiles doesn’t see Isaac at all, but he reads about a string of meth labs in Detroit exploding. The proprietors are found missing fingers, but willing and able to confess to all wrongdoings. Stiles strengthens his resolve and puts a little sign in the window of his bedroom toward the end of August. _Talk?_

He wakes up in the same apartment from before. There are no pictures on the floor this time, just Isaac, and Stiles tries to act like he _expected_ Isaac to abduct him instead of, you know, knocking.

“I’m leaving in two days,” Stiles says, shaking his head to clear it.

“I know. Palo Alto. Stanford. Third year of law school,” Isaac says, and Stiles would probably be terrified if he didn’t feel the bizarre, piercing connection that he does.

“Right,” Stiles says. “But before I leave, I wanted to ask. Is this what you want to do forever? Work for B6-13?”

He’s spent weeks practicing this conversation in his head, researching PTSD, trying to work out just how far he can go along agreeing with Isaac’s distorted truths without causing additional damage.

Isaac narrows his eyes. “I couldn’t leave.”

Stiles shrugs, trying to control his heart rate through sheer force of will. “That’s fine. I was just wondering. If there was a way out, a way to do something different with your life. Would you be interested?”

Isaac produces a knife from somewhere and starts digging little furrows in the carpet. “No one gets out of B6-13.”

“No one gets out on their own, maybe. But I could help.”

Isaac’s entire body stills, and Stiles wonders if he’s made a fatal error. Isaac is unstable, no doubt about that, and Stiles might be promising something he can’t deliver. But he’s produced new identities before – another fun first that he can check off his to-do list, thanks to the McCall ranch – and the Stanford Psych department offers excellent counseling services. He can help Isaac start over.

“You could help,” Isaac says, his voice flat and untrusting.

“I’d like to try,” Stiles says.

Isaac goes back to furrowing. “I’m not ready.”

"That’s fine,” Stiles says. “I’ll to leave my phone number with you, just in case you ever are ready. Do you have a number you could give me?”

Isaac jerks his head a few times. “Command makes us get new phones every four days. But I keep a secret phone.”

While Isaac saves his number into Stiles’ phone, Stiles wonders for the nine hundredth time if this is insane. Isaac abducted him (twice), assaulted him, killed at least one man and possibly two others. He's deeply entrenched in far-fetched conspiracy theories. No one’s found any trace of the three “missing” Chicagoans. This could all go sideways in the blink of an eye, and Stiles wouldn’t even see it coming. From the little Stiles knows of Isaac, he’d pin him as Lawful Evil, and this is not an alliance that Stiles, a self-professed Neutral Good, is completely comfortable making.

Stiles _really_ needs to stop playing RPGs.

“I have to earn it,” Isaac says, interrupting Stiles’ increasingly frantic thoughts and handing his phone back.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“Your help,” Isaac clarifies. “I have to earn it. So I need…I need…” He counts something on his fingers, then counts again to double check. Whatever it is, he has twelve to go. “I need a year,” he says confidently. “To be ready. I need a year, and then you call me when you need my help, and then you can help me get out.”

“When I need your help?” Stiles asks, faintly.

“I’m good with bodies,” Isaac says, like he’s reciting his resume. “And extracting information.”

Stiles blanches. “I don’t think I’m going to have need of that particular skillset any time soon, Isaac.”

“It has to be a trade,” Isaac says bluntly. “I can’t owe you. It has to be a trade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dying over your responses to the first two chapters of this. So many of you are so incredibly excited and kind and invested, and that takes my passion for this to a whole new level :) I swear I respond to all comments, it jussst takes me a while. 
> 
> Friendly reminder that this is the second part of a three-part series. The ambiguous/open-ending tag applies to this part of the series, not the series as a whole (a bunch of you are pretty worked up about this). 
> 
> If you skipped the middle section of the flashback due to the trigger warning, here's what you missed: Isaac is fucking terrifying. Stiles sees him kill and dispose of a man responsible for human trafficking and abuse of young women. Isaac tells Stiles about his abusive childhood and how he joined an organization called B6-13 because they promised to make him powerful. Stiles' heart pretty much breaks for this guy, who is suffering from such extreme PTSD that he's created a conspiracy theory about a made-up government organization to justify his vigilante/revenge streak. 
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Daylight by Matt & Kim. 
> 
> Next chapter comes out on Friday!


	4. this small town's sky fade from black to blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Actual coffee,” Stiles says, catching a Thermos before it can roll off the edge. Derek follows him inside and Starbuck trails them both, the door shutting gently behind her. “Bananas and chocolate chips. A book – have you read Gulliver’s Travels? I brought the complete Chronicles of Narnia, too. Your glasses and contact case, and a toothbrush. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a spare set of work clothes. Phone charger and earbuds. A dog,” he finishes, gesturing at Starbuck, who wags her tail and licks Derek’s hand.
> 
> Derek stares. “What…where did you get all of this?”
> 
> Stiles points at the various things as he answer. “Coffee, bananas, chocolate, books, and dog came from my place. Lydia helped me break into your apartment for everything else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic attack trigger warning in the flashback section - arm yourself as necessary.

**March, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

“Who in accounting would I talk to about our shareholder interests?” Derek asks, looking beyond his monitor to Louise, the executive assistant that bounces between him, James, Trella, and Cheyenne. She’s been trying to get him to pay attention a to a rundown of his next month’s schedule for the past twenty minutes, but Derek found a few numbers in the quarterly report that are niggling at the back of his mind.

Her brow wrinkles. “Uh, probably Annie Parker in the NOLA office. She’s our major stakeholder account manager. Why?”

Derek runs his cursor over the line item again, frowning. “It’s probably nothing, just…can you set up a meeting?”

“Sure. Conference call, or are you going to head down?”

Derek flips forward on his calendar. “I’ll be down there for the London branch opening party the week after next, right? See if she’s got time then.”

She nods, typing a note to herself on her phone and mouthing along with the words. Just as she looks up and prepares to launch into her overview again, Derek’s cell phone buzzes against the hardwood of his desk.

He makes a face at the name on the screen for Louise’s benefit, then answers. “Laura, now’s not the best time –.”

“Derek, _shut up_. Mom’s in the hospital.”

Derek’s stomach drops hard. “What? What happened? What hospital? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a lot background noise from Laura’s end of the phone. “I was in a meeting on the Hill and Erica pulled me out of it and I think we’re headed to one of the bunkers, but no one will tell me what’s going on even though I’m the fucking _Deputy Chief of Staff_ – can you get to James Madison?”

“I – I – yes,” Derek says, lurching up out of his chair and throwing files into his briefcase. Louise looks at him with alarm, but seems to understand that he needs to get out of there fast and makes herself scarce. “Where’s Cora? Where’s Dad?”

“Erica says Cora’s getting bunkered, too. Dad’s still at the Seattle branch, isn’t he? You two work for the same goddamn company, Derek, why don’t _you_ know where he is? I swear to God, Derek, I can’t _do_ this on my own –.”

“Laura,” Derek says loudly, forcing himself to be heard over the muffled talking coming from Laura’s background and Laura’s own anxiety. “I’m heading to James Madison now. I’ll get you an update as soon as I can.”

“I love you, Grumble,” Laura says, and then an unfamiliar voice says, “Ma’am, you can’t take phones past this point,” and Laura says, “Fuck you, I’m the Deputy Chief of Staff,” and the line cuts out.

Derek is frozen in space for half a breath, looking at the phone in his hand, and then he’s slamming his briefcase and running for the door, shouting for Luke.

 

***

 

“We’ve isolated a foreign substance in the president’s bloodstream and we’re running it against every database we have, but there’s no match yet,” Dr. Markings says, gesturing to a little box in the bottom corner the screen that reads _MATCHES_ and the ticker under it stating that 17,384 of 24,558 toxins have been cross-referenced without a hit. “Until we know what it is, it’s impossible to outline a specific course of treatment.”

“How about a _general_ plan, then? It would be absolutely _wonderful_ if my sister could be conscious, for example,” Peter says, clearly getting frustrated with the doctor’s lack of answers. He’s pacing back and forth across the small floor space in Dr. Marking’s private office, shoes making little whooshing noises against the carpet every time he pivots. “Or are all your Ph.D.’s only good for decorating walls?”

“Uncle Peter,” Derek chides, exhaustion tingeing the edges of his words. He’s not exactly thrilled with the situation either, but it’s not like being a jackass to the doctor is going to help. Peter arrived at the hospital immediately after Derek, and there was a flurry of activity right at the beginning as the hospital staff and Secret Service worked to lock down a wing of the hospital and keep the president’s arrival under wraps, but it’s been twelve hours since then and the anxious boredom Derek’s feeling really isn’t fun at three in the morning.

“It’s all right,” Dr. Markings responds. “This is an immensely stressful time, and I understand that it’s frustrating right now. What I can tell so far is that it’s acting like a neurotoxin, possibly something in the synaptic vesicle release inhibitor class – like a botulinum toxin.”   

“Botulinum,” Derek repeats, the word tasting vulgar against his tongue. “My mother has botulism?”

“Isn’t that what Botox is made out of?” Peter adds incredulously.

Dr. Markings makes a coughing sound in the back of his throat and expands something on the tablet, showing a bar graph on one half of the screen and something with racing lights on the other. None of it makes sense to Derek – he feels like he’s trying to interpret fish language with his ear pressed to an aquarium tank. “In very low doses, yes, botulinum toxin can be used to selectively freeze certain muscle groups. At higher levels, it can cause progressive and, ultimately, lethal paralysis. The president’s symptoms mostly match the onset for an aggressive case of botulism, but as I said, this is just presenting _like_ botulinum; the immunoassay already ruled out all known strains.”

“And if it’s an unknown strain?” Derek asks, dreading the answer.

“We’re already working on reverse engineering the antitoxin,” Dr. Markings assures him.  “Our lab techs were able to break the president’s toxin down into its individual components and they’re establishing parameters for a neutralizing compound now.”

“How long?” Derek is starting to get really sick of asking questions. Everything Dr. Markings says just brings more and more questions to the front of Derek’s mind, where they crowd each other out for highest billing.

“Six hours, if we get a match on a known toxin with an established antitoxin,” Dr. Markings says, shutting down the display on the tablet. “If there’s no match and it’s up to our lab techs to develop the antitoxin from scratch, it could be at least a week, maybe more. The testing protocols for administering an unregistered antitoxin to a human are rigorous, and with the President of the United States in our care, extra precautions are necessary.”

“Just do whatever you can, Dr. Markings,” Derek says to the man who was once Stiles’ date to a HaleEnt Christmas party and now holds his mother’s life in his hands. “Please.”

The doctor stands and offers his hand. “Call me Allen,” he says. “I have your numbers as well as contact information for the First Gentleman. I’ll let you know immediately if there’s news.”

Derek and Peter both shake his hand, then head into the hallway. Derek has never been a huge fan of hospitals, but a locked-down wing in the middle of the night is even worse; there’re no staff scuttling to and fro, just a black suit on every corner and strips of colored tape leading to the different units.

Peter claps him on the shoulder. “Okay. I’m going to call Deaton, give him an update. What do you need?”

What does Derek _need_? Derek needs a lot of things. He needs his mom to wake up. He needs his dad’s plane to land. He needs his sisters here, not squirreled away in some bunker. He needs to not be wearing the same clothes he’s been wearing since 6:30AM yesterday.

“Coffee,” is what he settles on, and lets Peter guide him two halls over to an abandoned nurses’ lounge before he steps out to make his call.

Derek brews the coffee – one of those single-serve things with the little pods – on autopilot. The utter silence of this wing weighs on him and gives the air a funny quality in his mouth and lungs, like it’s too dense to actually support respiration.

He’s staring at the bubbles left in the bottom of his paper cup by the first trickles of coffee when he hears the clacking of claws on tile nearby and a familiar voice talking at a familiar pace.

“Luke let me in,” the voice is saying, presumably to one of the Secret Service agents posted outside the nurses’ lounge. “Luke _Winters_ , _Agent_ Luke Winters, he knows me and he knows my damn dog, now one of you tell me where Derek Hale is right now or so help me, I’m going to –.”

“Stiles?” Derek interrupts, sticking his head out the door of the lounge before Stiles can corporeally threaten a federal agent. Derek can’t say for certain, but he’s reasonably confident there’s jail time associated with that.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, surprising probably both of them by throwing himself forward and wrapping Derek in a hug. Derek can feel Stiles glaring at the agents – Trebundy and Avergaz, he thinks – over his shoulder. “He was right inside? Five feet away? Couldn’t say anything?”

Something pushes hard against the back of Derek’s knee, and he pulls away from Stiles to see Starbuck pressing her nose against his legs, obviously displeased with being left out but too well-trained to jump. He reaches down to stroke her ears while Stiles brushes past him into the lounge and dumps the contents of his bag onto the counter next to Derek’s half-brewed coffee.

“Actual coffee,” Stiles says, catching a Thermos before it can roll off the edge. Derek follows him inside and Starbuck trails them both, the door shutting gently behind her. “Bananas and chocolate chips. A book – have you read _Gulliver’s Travels_? I brought the complete _Chronicles of Narnia,_ too. Your glasses and contact case, and a toothbrush. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a spare set of work clothes. Phone charger and earbuds. A dog,” he finishes, gesturing at Starbuck, who wags her tail and licks Derek’s hand.

Derek stares. “What…where did you get all of this?”

Stiles points at the various things as he answer. “Coffee, bananas, chocolate, books, and dog came from my place. Lydia helped me break into your apartment for everything else.”

Derek keeps staring. “What… _why_?”

Stiles looks at the spread of stuff on the table, to Starbuck, and finally back to Derek. Derek hadn’t noticed before, but Stiles is wearing his old red hoodie and Stanford sweatpants. His shoes are mismatched. He’s in glasses, his hair is matted down in the front, and he looks inconceivably small. “It’s what I wanted. When my mom was in the hospital.”

Derek takes a few steps closer, reaching out to touch the pocket of his decade-old WashU sweatshirt. Starbuck follows, apparently set remaining close enough to lean against his leg whenever he stops moving. “How’d you know? Oh, God – did it get out? Do the press know?”

“Not yet,” Stiles says, unscrewing the cap on the Thermos. “Laura called me an hour ago. They got let out of the bunkers once the Secret Service deemed it not a widespread assault, but they have to go through the normal post-bunker debriefing processes and she didn’t want you to be here by yourself.”

“Deaton’s holding down the fort, but we have a problem,” Peter says, entering the room without looking away from his phone. “Maddie’s not going to be able to take this.”

"What’s wrong with Maddie?” Stiles asks sharply, concern for his former-assistant-turned-successor-as-White-House-Press-Secretary plain in his voice.

Peter’s head jerks up. “Stiles. What are you doing here? Why is there a dog?”

“Laura,” Derek and Stiles chorus together, and Starbuck gets up to go nose around Peter’s shoes.

“What’s wrong with Maddie?” Stiles demands again.

“Anxiety, maybe PTSD,” Peter says, sighing and taking a seat. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Ever since last year’s assassination attempt, she hasn’t been as comfortable in front of the cameras. The stress is too much. Deaton’s been trying to get her to talk to a therapist, but she’s stubborn. When she found out about the current situation, she started crying and begged Deaton not to make her run the press room for this.”

“Deaton can do it himself,” Derek says, not really sure why this is such a big deal.

“Deaton has to try to hold the White House together while your mother is out of commission for an undetermined period of time,” Peter says. “McKinney’s people are already circling.” 

“I could do it,” Stiles offers, and Derek looks at him abruptly, not sure if he heard correctly.

“What?” Peter says, and it seems Derek isn’t the only one surprised by the offer.

“I could be the White House Press Secretary again,” Stiles says, locking eyes with Peter. “Interim only, until the president pulls through, Maddie gets help, or we find someone better.”

“There’s no one better,” Peter says, and if Derek didn’t know any better, he’d swear that Peter’s tone was skewed _just_ too far towards suggestive.

“Obviously,” Stiles says, and Derek recognizes the change in Stiles’ voice as he snaps over into his professional mode. “You need to talk to Deaton about this? I’ll talk to Deaton about this. Give me your phone.”

 

***

 

Five hours later, Derek, his sisters, and his dad are sitting in the same nurses’ lounge, watching Stiles lead a press conference in the hospital’s lobby on TV. Starbuck has wedged herself firmly between Derek’s calves and the couch.

“At approximately 3:15 yesterday afternoon, President Hale became unresponsive during a meeting with her Chief of Staff and Attorney General Schwartz,” Stiles is saying. He’s in a suit now, shaved, has traded his glasses for contacts. “She was immediately transported to James Madison Hospital, where she has been in the care of Dr. Allen Markings and his team. Dr. Markings will now outline the president’s condition. Please hold all questions.”

The four Hales stare blankly at the screen, watching Stiles switch places with Dr. Markings.

“We should make a rule,” Laura says. “Only one near-death experience per term. This is it for her – she’s not allowed to try to get herself killed again until she’s out of office.”

The joke, if Laura means it as that, falls flat.

“I’m pregnant,” Cora says into the silence, and everyone turns to stare at her. Cora’s hand is protectively curled over her stomach, and her face is pale. “Three months along. Sean and I were waiting to tell everyone until my birthday dinner next week.”

“Cora,” Laura nearly chokes, pulling Cora against her shoulder and swinging Cora’s legs up on top of her own, like they’re little again. “Cora, that’s amazing.”

Derek doesn’t really have words, so he just gently rests his hand on Cora’s head. When he looks over at his dad, he pretends not to see the shine of tears above his smile.

 

***

 

Dr. Markings finds them at 10AM and tells them that, barring any complications, he expects the president to make a full recovery. The toxin in her bloodstream is self-perpetuating, so she won’t wake up on her own, but her brain scans show stable activity and his team is working as quickly as they safely can on the antitoxin.

It’s all medical gibberish. It doesn’t make Derek feel any better.

Derek gets sent home to shower and sleep, no arguments brooked, by all three of his conscious family members, and is standing in his kitchen steeping tea and wearing boxers and nothing else when Stiles comes blowing into his apartment around noon.

“You’ll need to get your locks fixed,” Stiles says. “Lydia and I were more forceful than usual on the break-in. It was a tense moment. You can bill S&A if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says distantly. He’s been awake for thirty straight hours, he’s not even really sure this is happening.

“Great,” Stiles says. “So, here’s the thing. I’m going to be busy for the next…I don’t know how long. A couple weeks at least, probably, maybe longer because Maddie’s not going to be up for coming back anytime soon. So I’m going back to the White House and you’re probably not going to see me for awhile, but I didn’t want to forget to tell you that I’m mad at you.”

Derek has _definitely_ not had enough sleep for this. “What?”

Stiles sets his hands on the counter, long fingers spidering out over the surface. Derek wonders, idly, if Stiles is good at piano. Or guitar. Something where long fingers are an advantage. He’s never asked is Stiles plays any instruments. How has he never asked that? “You should have called me.”

“What?”

“When you found out about your mom,” Stiles says. “Laura said you were at the hospital with just Peter for almost twelve hours – you should have called me.”

Derek blinks. “I figured you were busy.”

“…are you _nuts_?”

“No, I know,” Derek says. “You would’ve wanted to be there for my mom. But I didn’t want to bother you, not when we didn’t know anything.”

“Fuck that,” Stiles says, and Derek accidentally snorts a little bit of tea up his nose. “Shit, sorry – here, have a napkin – but seriously, Derek, _fuck_ that. I didn’t go for your mom. I mean, of course I want her to be okay, but I went for you, idiot.”

"What?”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, exasperated. “I’m chalking a lot of this up to sleep deprivation, because you cannot honestly be this dumb. Derek, we haven’t gone more than twenty-four hours without some form of communication in a month. You have a permanently claimed couch cushion at my apartment, and you keep red grapes in your freezer even though I know for a fact that you hate them. Isaac doesn’t leave creative diagrams detailing what he’ll do if you fuck up again on my desk anymore, and Scott hasn’t moved all the furniture in your bedroom an inch to the left in _weeks_.”

“Is _that_ what was happening?” Derek asks. “I thought I’d slept through a series of tiny earthquakes.”

Stiles rubs his hands over his face. “We are going to have a serious talk about your powers of observation after you sleep for the next eighteen hours. The point, Derek, is that if nothing else, you and I are friends. And that means that I care about you. And that means that you get to _call me_ when you need someone. Got it?”

Derek nods.

“Okay. Let’s get you to bed,” Stiles says, taking the mug out of his hands and setting it on the counter.

“But I’m not –.”

“I swear to God, Derek, if the phase ‘I’m not tired’ comes out of your mouth, I’m going to call Lydia and make her babysit you.”

 

**August, Year One of Talia Hale’s First Term (3.58 years ago)**

 

To his surprise, Stiles settles back in to the breakneck pace of being a press secretary after law school graduation with relative finesse.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Stiles makes the White House Press Room feel less like a serious room full of serious people collecting serious information to distribute to the masses and more like a particularly organized day camp.

His phones – because he actually has three phones now: his personal cell phone, his work cell phone, and his desk phone – ring constantly, to the point where he wakes up on purpose as least once in the middle of the night to check his messages, because otherwise there will be too many of them to deal with in the morning for him to get through and still make his morning rounds of the bullpen. He rents a shoddy little apartment whose only saving grace is the ten-minute walk to the OEOB, he knows every barista in the District by name, he accidentally wears the same suit to work two days in a row so many times that Maddie – God bless Maddie, Stiles would be crashing and burning so incredibly hard without Maddie – starts stocking spare ties in her desk, so he can at least approximate some semblance of personal grooming in front of the cameras.

He’s chronically exhausted, he’s making shit money, and sometime the double- and triple-talk has him screaming into the pillow Maddie so thoughtfully placed in the bottom drawer of his desk.

And he loves. Every. Minute.

Two and a half months, and it feels like the rhythm is a permanent part of him, as natural as his heartbeat. He’s in the Inner Circle. He has meetings with the Joint Chiefs, with foreign ambassadors, with judges and generals and more bureaucrats than he could shake an entire quiver of sticks at. He doesn’t exactly help _shape_ policy, but he helps _deliver_ it, and a few times a week the president gathers all the senior staff (and Stiles is White House Senior Staff, unfucking _believable_ ) in the Oval to talk through agendas and make sure everyone on her team is on the same page. Laura gets promoted to Deputy Chief of Staff in July, and she and Stiles strike up a friendship that remains easy so long as she doesn’t mention Derek (who is still silent and in Boston for business school, maybe having _finally_ realized that Stiles wants nothing to do with him after Stiles didn’t respond to the card he sent after their two seconds of eye contact Stanford graduation. The card is still shut, unread, inside a book in Stiles’ apartment. The _Count of Monte Cristo_ , actually, because, irony.)

So, yeah. Derek aside, Stiles’ life is pretty fucking awesome. He’s 24 and White House Press Secretary. Lydia, for reasons inexplicable to modern science, becomes one of his best friends and calls regularly from her desk at a swanky Manhattan law firm. Scott, taking a year off to work on the McCall ranch in Texas, is coming to visit in September. Everything is coming up Stiles.

His phone – his personal cell phone, that is – rings for the fifth time that day, and he smiles at the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department ID that pops up before swiping to answer.

“Hey, Dad, now’s not a great time. Can I call you back tonight?”

“Stiles,” says a female voice on the other end that’s definitely _not_ Stiles’ dad. “This is Tara.”

“Oh, hi, Deputy Graeme,” Stiles says, nudging open a folder with his spare hand and starting to highlight the lines that need revision. Intern speechwriters, _honestly_. No concept of parallel structure. “Where’s my dad?”

“Stiles, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this,” Tara says, and Stiles’ world crumbles.

 

***

 

Lydia meets up with him when they both have layovers in Denver, and it’s only the steady warmth of her fingers laced between his that gives Stiles the strength to push open the door to his father’s house. She follows him around the rooms in silence as he reacquaints himself with the way the air in this place presses against his skin, calling to mind memories of _home_ and _family_ and _safe_. She doesn’t let go when he can’t step through the threshold into the master bedroom. She doesn’t let go when he pulls his dad’s faded  _Beacon Hills High Lacrosse Parent_ t-shirt out of the dryer and carries it knotted in his fingers. She doesn’t let go when he sits on his childhood bed for two hours and cries into a pillow that doesn’t smell like anything other than detergent anymore.

Scott arrives soon after, and the strangest forty-eight hours of Stiles’ life begins. For two days, people from all over the county stop by to drop off food and engage in conversations that are half I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss and half haven’t-seen-you-around-here-much-lately. For two days, he and Scott clean out the house, and for as many times as Stiles breaks down over a photo or a painting his mom did or finding his dad’s spare badge in the safe, there are just as many moments they end up laughing about the time the sheriff tried to teach Stiles to fish and they both ended up in the hospital with hooks in their thumbs, or the dent in the wall from Stiles’ forehead when they had indoor wagon races on a rare snow day, or the incredibly expired box of spinach they find at the back of the freezer. For two days, Lydia makes funeral arrangements, deals with protocols for the sheriff’s department, and makes lists of everything they need to do while Scott and Stiles pack up Stiles’ childhood home, sealing all of Stiles’ ghosts into place with cardboard and packaging tape.  

After two days, there’s the service. Stiles is supposed to speak – he worked on the words all night with Scott and Lydia, Lydia and Scott – but nothing comes out, because when he looks at the coffin and his dad lying inside, all he can think is _This isn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen_. _The sheriff of Beacon Hills doesn’t get shot in a convenience store hold-up. This wasn’t supposed to happen_.

Away from the church, back at the house, during the wake, though, he can speak. They’re not the words he practiced, but they’re the words he means, and when he looks around this room at all the people who cared about his father, who supported both of them when his mom died, he feels

Derek.

What the _fuck_ is Derek doing here?

He storms out to the back porch, his lungs already starting to compress funny, and now is _not the time_. Not now, not here, he _cannot fucking handle this right now_ –

And then Derek is standing there in front of him, and Stiles is just –

Stiles is _just_ –

He rears back and throws a punch. He doesn’t put his weight behind it, his thumb is tucked into his fingers, he doesn’t turn his hips and he basically does every single thing that he knows, in theory, you’re not supposed to do, but he doesn’t _care_ because Derek is here and Stiles has been drinking and even though Lydia’s been switching him to water every other glass, he’s still been drinking and Derek is still _here_ and he connects with Derek’s jaw and for a split, split second, it feels _good_.

Then his entire hand explodes with pain.

“Son of a bitch, goddamnit, ow, fucking _ow_ ,” he chants, unable to believe he really just did that, but when Derek straightens up again and takes a step toward him saying, “ _Stiles_ ,” Stiles lunges again. Because Derek does _not_ get to say his name. Not like that, not after everything he did, not – not anymore. So he swings and he swings again, but Derek is fucking dodging like this is the fucking Golden Gloves and Stiles’ lungs are traitors and his head is spinning and it is all, abruptly, too much.

He backs into the porch swing and lets his knees give way, rattling the chains, and pushes every bit of air he has left out at once, hoping his respiratory system will get the hint.

“Stiles, I…” Derek tries again, but Stiles lifts his head and Derek looks at him like he’s something precious and lost and wounded.

“What are you doing here, Derek?” He asks, and his words come out in a hoarse whisper he doesn’t recognize.

“I…I saw your dad’s obituary,” Derek offers. “And the notice about the service.”

Stiles tries counting his breathing pattern out in his head. Something about in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. It just makes him dizzier. “Okay, but what are you _doing_ here?” _Why did you_ crash _my father’s funeral? On what fucking planet is that a good idea?_

“I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.”

It’s the little flick of Derek’s fingers up to his jaw, rubbing at the spot Stiles’ knuckles had landed, that breaks him, and Stiles is up out off the swing. “I didn’t invite you. I didn’t invite you to Stanford graduation, and I sure as hell did not invite you here,” Stiles says, his breaths coming shorter and fewer between, and it takes a _lot_ of air to make one of these impassioned speeches, and they’re an arms length away from his father’s wake – his father’s wake because his father is dead, his father is dead and Stiles didn’t even get to say goodbye and can't remember the last thing they talked about. “You don’t get to just show up in my life whenever you feel like it, that’s not _fair_ to me, and – and- if I wanted – a Hale here, I’d have – brought Laura – at least she _asked_ , at least – she _cares_.”

The pain in his knee and his hip when he hits the floor is distant, buffered, and he can’t even feel his knuckles anymore. It’s all white noise and spots in his vision, and his father is dead, and Stiles won’t ever be able to make another joke about him being a _sherrrrriffic_ dad, and he’s gone and it _hurts_ and he can’t fucking breathe and he thinks Derek says something and he maybe asks for Scott, God, why isn’t Scott _here yet_ because he _can’t fucking breathe_ and this is worse – worse than last year, worse than – just worse –

and then Scott is there, above him, saying something, and his fingers feel real and warm and sturdy, and there’s a pressure on Stiles’ chest and his one hand can feel it and the fingers of his other hand notch around Scott’s collarbone and it’s the palm of that hand rising and falling, steady pressure, even in and out, and he hears Scott say to match him, and it’s in and out, up and down, in and out, until the darkness at edge of his vision recedes and Scott helps him sit up.

It’s quiet on the porch, when Scott goes to get water. Quiet except for the blood pounding in his ears and the irrationally loud sound of Derek breathing, because of course – of _fucking course –_ Derek is still here. And saw everything.

“That wasn’t about you,” Stiles says.

“I know,” Derek says.

Scott comes back and hands him a bottle of water, threatening to send one of the BHFD rookies after him when he walks off into the yard.  He needs to walk, needs to move, needs to feel his muscles knitting themselves back together. The porch light casts Scott and Derek’s shadows long over the grass, and he walks until they aren’t touching him anymore, until he can’t hear the quiet conversation that’s probably about him. His legs are shaky and his joints don’t work properly, like he’s been disarticulated at the knees and elbows and spine. It takes too long to get his body back in proper working order after a panic attack that bad, and every second is just another visceral reminder that there was something to panic about.

The worst part about a panic attack, Stiles thinks, is that knowing you’re having one doesn’t do jack _shit_ to help you. It doesn’t fucking matter that you can call it by its name and look it in the eye – when you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe. And that’s something to panic about all on its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmk, so this is going to happen a few more times - you'll see a scene that we saw from Derek's POV repeated, but through Stiles' eyes (and vice versa). Lemme know what you think? 
> 
> Forever in love with every single one of you. Stilllll working on catching up to comments from Fixer and First Son because you're all amazing and tell me all of your thoughts and I LOVE THEM and I love you for sharing. 
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Crazy One More Time by Kip Moore.


	5. and i'll be what you need for me to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I knew,” Stiles says. “I knew Command was going to try again, I knew the president was still in danger, but I couldn’t do anything about it. The goddamn pictures I keep finding everywhere are just a constant reminder that all of you pay the price if we don’t toe the line.”
> 
> “We’re fighting a shadow army, dude,” Scott says, tipping his chair onto its back legs. “And we’re all still alive. Take your victories where you can get them.”

**March, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

The strangest thing about returning to the White House as Press Secretary is that it doesn’t, even for one minute, feel strange – but that may just be because the familiar, persistent exhaustion rears its baggy-eyed head and turns Stiles’ day into a series of timestamps. It’s 2:38AM on a Tuesday when Laura calls Stiles to tell him about the president; it’s 3:34AM when Stiles gets to James Madison; it’s 8:01AM when Stiles leads the press conference in the lobby; it’s 12:17PM when Stiles bullies Derek into sleeping under threat of Lydia Martin; it’s 2:21PM when Stiles steps into his old office and Maddie, sobbing, throws herself into his arms; it’s 3:10PM when Stiles hears that Allen’s team and the Secret Service are calling this a naturally-occurring incident – not an attack, just a bizarre twist of fate.

It’s 5:04PM when Stiles takes his place behind the podium in the White House Press Room and informs the nation that, under the Twenty-Fifth Amendment, President Hale has submitted her written declaration that she is unable to discharge the powers and duties of her office to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House.

“Stiles! So Vice President McKinney is now the president?”

“Gilbert McKinney is the _acting_ president, Matt,” Stiles corrects, cracking open another bottle of water. “I know I’ve been gone awhile, but that’s no reason to slack on your Constitutional trivia.”

“Follow-up,” Matt says. “What will _Acting_ President McKinney’s first action be?”

“Keeping the country running until President Hale is able to return to office,” Stiles says.

“What if she’s not able to return to office?” Calls someone else. Bridget, Stiles thinks? She’s one of the newer correspondents.

“I’m not going to speculate on what _might_ happen _if_ President Hale is unable to return to office,” Stiles says. “At this point, Dr. Allen Markings – that’s A-L-L-E-N – and his team at James Madison believe that the president will make a full and complete recovery, following the administration of the correct antitoxin.”

“Follow-up. An antitoxin that’s never been used before, right?”

“We went over this this morning,” Stiles says. “The substance affecting President Hale is an unknown toxin. Dr. Markings’ team was able to break it into its composite parts earlier today, and from that breakdown, they are constructing the antitoxin.”           

“What if the antitoxin doesn’t work?”

“One follow-up per person,” Stiles says. “And I’m not going to _speculate_ on what _might_ happen, as I said before. However, I’ll say this: Dr. Markings’ team is working in consultation with experts at Johns Hopkins, the Mayo Clinic, UCLA, and Oxford. They are following an accelerated testing timeline, and their results will be verified by President Hale’s private physician as well as representatives from the FDA. Next question.”

 

***

 

1:08AM, Wednesday. James Madison Hospital.

Stiles drops into the chair across from Allen’s desk and starts divvying up the plastic and Styrofoam containers. “Roasted broccoli and potatoes with grilled chicken?”

“That’s me,” Allen says, accepting it and breathing in the steam appreciatively. “Tell your friend Allison that if she ever wants to break up with Scott and marry a gay guy, I’m available.”

Stiles snorts into his own food, penne with rustic marinara. He still has no idea how Allison manages to make a blend of tomatoes and spices that is somehow infinitely better than every other blend of tomatoes and spices, but he’s so, _so_ thankful that she does. “Because that plan’s worked out well for other Argent women in the past.”

“I’m already out of the closet,” Allen says, point-of-fact-ly. He blows on a piece of broccoli. “There would be no lies between us. Just excellent food and healthy brains.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know,” Stiles says. They chew in silence for a few minutes. “So. No change?”

Allen sighs. “Are you asking as my friend or as the White House Press Secretary?”

Stiles gestures down at the Stanford sweatpants he’s changed back into and the tie that hangs loose around his neck. “Do I look like a press secretary?”

Allen laughs. “You _look_ like you got hit by a semi truck.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles retorts. “How long have you been awake now? Forty hours?”

“I took a nap earlier,” Allen defends. “And I’m a neurosurgeon. Forty-eight hour shifts aren’t unheard of. But it doesn’t really matter, answer’s the same either way – no, no change. The president is resting peacefully, brain activity’s fine, but the neurotoxin doubles itself in a rate that matches its half-life.”

“We’re in a holding pattern, then, until the antitoxin’s ready,” Stiles says. “Any update on that front?”

Allen shakes his head. “We’re four versions in, and nothing’s been effective in testing so far. It’s not uncommon to go through upwards of fifty slightly different compounds when developing an antitoxin, but each new one takes longer because you have to identify what exactly went wrong with the last batch.”

“What’s your timeline look like?” Stiles pulls a piece of bread out of one of the containers and mops it into the sauce.

Allen flicks a little piece of potato skin at him. “I thought you said you were coming by to bring me dinner, not to interrogate me.”

 

***

 

6:53AM, Thursday. Stiles’ White House office.

There’s a picture of David, Laura, Derek, and Cora Hale that looks like a still from a hospital surveillance camera siting underneath Stiles’ stapler when he turns on the lights in his office.

 

***

 

7:43PM, Thursday. Stiles’ apartment.

“And there’s _no_ evidence of the president being intentionally poisoned,” Stiles says. “At all. None.”

“It’s not surprising,” Lydia says, slightly shifting a Post-it to be at a perfect right-angle to the edge of Stiles’ kitchen table. “We’ve dug into almost every single one of these cases, and we still don’t have anything concrete.”

“It’s been almost a year,” Kira adds, playing with Starbuck’s ears. “And all we’ve got are rumors. Isaac and Malia’s stories. Your mom’s reappearance. The video of the masked guys taking Kate into the hospital.”

Isaac, sitting on the floor near her, doesn’t make a sound. Malia would probably have something to say, but she’s in one of her B6-13-blackout-don’t-ask-you-really-really-don’t-want-to-know periods.

“I _knew_ ,” Stiles says, staring at the _President Hale poisoned_ Post-it that’s stuck two squares down from the _Assassination attempt, President Hale_ one. “I _knew_ Command was going to try again, I _knew_ the president was still in danger, but I couldn’t do anything about it. The goddamn pictures I keep finding everywhere are just a constant reminder that all of _you_ pay the price if we don’t toe the line.”

“We’re fighting a shadow army, dude,” Scott says, tipping his chair onto its back legs. “And we’re all still alive. Take your victories where you can get them.”

 

***

 

6:27AM, Friday. Capitol Coffee.

“I think I grabbed yours by mistake,” says a voice near Stiles’ ear, and he looks up from his phone to see a truly gorgeous man smiling at him and holding two paper coffee cups, one with _Dylan_ written on the side and the other sporting _Danny_. Gorgeous offers him the Dylan drink. “They came up at the same time, and I was only half paying attention.”

“You saved me from having to walk three steps to the counter, so it’s no problem,” Stiles says, dropping his phone back into his pocket and accepting the cup. “My mobility is seriously hindered before the day’s caffeine influx begins.”

“You sure you don’t mean three days’ worth of caffeine?” The man-who-must-be-Danny laughs, gesturing to the code under _Dylan_ that indicates a double espresso in black coffee. “Long week?”

“Something like that,” Stiles says. He offers his hand. “Thanks for rescuing my coffee, Danny.”

Danny shakes his hand. “No problem, Dylan.”

Stiles almost corrects him, but decides against it. He’s not delusional enough to think he’s famous, but he _is_ the White House Press Secretary, and they’re a five-minute walk from the Oval. Plus, his face has been on TV a _lot_ lately. Explaining that with a name like _Stiles_ he usually just gives the barista whatever generic guy name pops to mind to speed things along (and then promptly forgets what he said by the time his order is up) usually results in a weird look and awkward conversation extrication. “Oh, it’s a big deal. Lots of coffee bandits around these parts.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” Danny smiles, and _that_ should come with an SPF advisory. “See you around. Have a good day!”

It’s only an hour later, when Stiles removes the paper insulator, that he sees the phone number written on his cup.

 

***

 

Friday around noon is when Stiles stops thinking in spurts. He runs his first broad-spectrum pressroom since coming back to the White House, finally touching on topics other than President Hale’s health (“Stable, no changes. Dr. Markings’ team has worked through twenty-two trials of antitoxin and are optimistic about versions twenty-three through twenty-seven.”) or Acting President McKinney’s first few days in the Oval (“Meeting with Senate Republicans to discuss the Reparations Bill and preparing to receive the delegation from Brazil next week.”). He spends three hours in a meeting with Rachel van Buren, McKinney’s press secretary, who is equal parts frustrating and uninformed. He holds a marathon session with the speechwriting team, preparing official White House statements for every possible outcome of President Hale’s current situation.

He collapses into his desk chair sometime after ten. He’s got a headache building behind his right ear and wants nothing more than to go home, have a drink, and sleep until Monday. But he has a full inbox – both email and the physical inbox on his desk – two missed calls from Lydia, another three from Deaton, and there’s a plate of brownies sitting on his keyboard that he doesn’t even stop to question because he hasn’t eaten since noon.

He’s a couple dozen emails, two phone calls, and three brownies deep when he reaches for another chunk of chocolate and his fingers close over the edges of a small, nondescript white envelope that was hidden under the first layer. He tears it open with his teeth, trying not to smush brownie into the paper, and dislodges the card so that it flutters down to land on a briefing about the public school systems in Canada-bordering states.

His brain recognizes the handwriting before comprehending the words, and he runs for the trashcan to avoid getting chunks of half-digested brownie all over his desk.

_Welcome back._

_Mom_

**January, Year Four of Talia Hale’s First Term (1.16 years ago)**

It’s an odd thing, proposing, Derek thinks. It’s January 14th, he’s at the Argent home in Aspen, Kate’s already downstairs with a bunch of her extended family and friends. The scene is flawlessly set, every detail down to the carats of the ring and the color dress Kate is wearing for the of-course-it’s-candid photo op planned to perfection by Stiles and his team (with perhaps more guidance than usual from Lydia).

All things considered, he should be happy. Sure, he’s never going to be in love with Kate, and he’s never going to want to roll around in bed with her. But there’s no denying that they’re a good match – she’s intelligent, funny, easy to talk to, and unquestionably gorgeous. Beyond that, they’re compatible at a personal level, because Kate really _doesn’t_ seem to give a crap that he’s a Hale, and she _has_ brewed surprisingly tasty porters and stouts in a bathtub, and she has a competitive streak that comes out at silly times, like when they’re tossing jelly beans at the screen when their least favorite characters appear or when they rode horses earlier that week.

It’s more than Derek hoped for. He can actually see the next few years of their lives together: him in the governor’s seat, Kate transferring to a hospital nearby, probably a kid or two by the time he’s up for reelection. They won’t be in love, but they’ll be friends, _partners_ , and maybe that matters more.

All he has to do is stand up, go downstairs, and ask.

It’s everything he wanted. Right?

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and Kate pokes her head in. “Hey. You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek says, snapping the ring box closed. “I was just…thinking.”

She sits down next to him on the bed, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Thinking about what?”

He hands her the box and looks out the window while she opens it and touches the tip of her finger to the solitary diamond. (“Simple and classic,” Lydia had said. “Elegant and understated. It’s perfect.”)

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Kate asks, gently prying the ring out of its velvet holder. “It’s not too late. We can call the whole thing off.”

Derek lets her words wash over him. The view from this third-floor bedroom they’re sharing is unbelievably beautiful – mountains, clear blue sky, a layer of pristine snow dampening every sound. “Are you sure _you_ want to go through with this?”

Kate slides the ring onto her finger and extends her arm in front of them. The last rays of sunset refract through it, casting dozens of tiny rainbows onto the walls. “I never really expected to marry for love,” she says. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get the sex talk when I was younger; I got the ‘You’re an Argent, and there are expectations,’ talk. My brother’s a senator, my dad’s runs Argent Arms like a tyrant and is head of the California branch of the NRA. The deal was that I could follow whatever career path I wanted, but I’d marry someone good for _the family_.”

She drops her hands and nestles her chin into them, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Like we’re the mob, or like this is feudal England.”

“No, I get it,” Derek says. “We of the 1% live in a world that’s pretty backwards sometimes.”

“No kidding.” She straightens up and turns to him, the green fabric of her dress rustling beneath her. “The way I see it, we’re going into this with our eyes open. We both know what we want out of this marriage. We don’t have any unrealistic expectations of each other, or about what it’s going to be like. We actually might stand a better chance of making this work than most couples.”

Derek lets out a small burst of laughter. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

She pulls the ring off her finger and slaps it and the small black box into his palm. “Precisely why you need a wife, Mr. Hale. To make you see things from another perspective. Now, come on – let’s go give my family a show we’ll be able to tell the grandkids about.”

 

***

 

Cora meets him at the airport with a peppermint mocha and a bored Secret Service contingent – his return flight from Denver was delayed by four hours.

“Here,” she says, pushing the drink into his hands and threading her arm through his elbow as they head toward the baggage claim. Luke and Chen trade quiet updates with Cora’s guys and walk a few yards behind them. “It’s the sixth one I ordered, waiting for you. I’ve peed eighteen times since I’ve gotten here. Where’s Kate?”

"She’s not flying back until the morning, something about a family meeting,” Derek says. They dodge someone who has to be a tourist, judging by his oversized fanny pack and white-knuckled map of the area. “And you could have checked the flight information online.”

“Sure, sure,” she says. “Stop stalling. I saw the pictures, I know she said yes.”

“I wasn’t – yes,” Derek sighs, electing not to quibble over the perceived slight. It’s almost midnight and tomorrow’s the State of the Union – he just wants to get home and get to bed. “Kate said yes. We’re engaged.”

“Hmm.” They check the electronic board to find Derek’s flight information. Carousel 4. “Congratulations, I guess?”

“Gosh, Cora, don’t sound too excited,” Derek deadpans. “You’re causing a scene.”

“What do you want me to say, D?” She says. They come to a stop in front of carousel four, which isn’t circulating yet. “I still think you’re being a dumbass about all of this. So does Laura.”

“Good thing I don’t need your approval, then,” Derek says, surprised by the hostility in his own voice.

“Good thing,” Cora agrees curtly, and Derek swears internally. He’s not mad at Cora, he’s just – worn out. Tired from a week of playing lovebirds for the Argent clan, drained from a weekend of reenacting the moment he got down on one knee for every single Argent that missed seeing it in person. He knows he has about 600 unread emails from work in his inbox, and coordinating with Stiles and his team exclusively via texts that Isaac programmed to self-erase 15 minutes after receipt is exhausting.

“I’m sorry, Little Bear,” he says, using the arm that’s still tucked against her side to pull her closer. “I know you mean well. I’m just tired.”

Cora doesn’t acknowledge his apology, but the hardness in her eyes recedes a little. “Laura’s bringing him, you know. Stiles. He’s her plus-one for tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Derek says. The light on carousel four starts to flash and the metal panels rattle to life. “That’s good. I bet he’s excited.”

Yeah,” Cora says, fitting her head against his shoulder. “I bet he is.”

 

***

 

“I’m so sorry,” Kate says again the next day, pressing a kiss to Derek’s cheek.

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says, helping her into the cab. “Go do your doctor thing. Save lives.”

She smiles gratefully at him and pulls the door closed, directing the driver to Inova Fairfax. Derek watches the car trundle down the drive for a minute, then heads back into the residence wing of the White House where Laura is traumatizing aides and making their mother re-read certain lines of the State of the Union address, checking her emphasis and inflection.

“Kate had to go,” he says. “Patient emergency at the hospital. Does this mean I get to skip out on the processional?”

“Nice try,” Laura says. She grabs an aide by the clipboard and says, “Find Maddie and get her here in five minutes.”

“I’m right here, Laura,” Maddie Duggan, the current White House Press Secretary whom Derek recognizes from the campaign when she was Stiles’ assistant, says from the hallway. “Leave Josh alone. I’m due in the pressroom in a few minutes, though, so what do you need?”

“You’re not going to the pressroom,” Laura says. She releases Josh’s clipboard, seizes one wrist of Derek’s and one of Maddie’s, and forces them to shake hands. “Maddie, Derek. Derek. Maddie.”

“We’ve met,” Derek and Maddie chorus.

“Even better,” Laura grins, dropping their arms. “Maddie, you’re now Derek’s plus-one. Get someone else to cover press until after the speech – no one cares what they talk about beforehand, anyway.”

 

***

 

“You okay?” Derek says into Maddie’s ear, leaning close and shouting a little to make himself heard over the noise of the crowd as they emerge from the motorcade. This is his mother’s fourth State of the Union, and the crowd outside the Capitol building never fails to impress and overwhelm.

“They’re a little rowdier than in the pressroom,” Maddie calls back, waving at Stiles when he turns to look at them with a slightly confused expression.

 _Probably wondering where Kate is_ , Derek thinks. _I should have told him beforehand._

They draw up close behind Laura and Stiles, then pause to wait for Sean and Cora. Through the earpiece Luke gave him before he got out of the car, he hears the concise updates the various Secret Service agents are trading back at forth, and he can see the backs of his parents’ heads over Laura and Stiles’ shoulders.

A voice – Boyd, maybe – crackles in his ear that Cora and Sean are in place, and the eight of them start moving down the rope line, flanked on every side by black-suited agents who chatter their progress.

The first shot impacts somewhere off to his left, and Derek has Maddie on the ground, his body curled protectively around hers, almost before the sound wave catches up to the visual. In the dead silence that surrounds the next two shots, Derek realizes that it doesn’t matter how long it’s been since his days of active duty – Air Force training and combat experience surge up out of the dusty compartments of his mind and force his body into action.

“ _Shots fired, shots fired_ ,” buzzes through his earpiece, and, overlaying that, a woman who sounds horribly like his mom lets out a single scream. Behind him, there’s an explosion that Derek can place with uncomfortable familiarity – a vehicle’s gas tank going up – and it shatters the moment, a snowglobe hitting concrete. He hauls Maddie off the ground and pushes her back toward the line of cars, his head automatically calculating things like bullet angles and distance to targets and number of vulnerabilities.

His family. His family are the vulnerabilities.

There’s another shot as they reach the car and he shoves Maddie inside, turning to go back into the field and help. His mom, his dad, Laura, Cora, Stiles, Sean – he gets a step away from the car before Luke materializes in front of him and grabs him by the collar.

“Get back in the car, sir,” Luke growls, pushing, but Derek wrenches out of his grasp and tries to get around him. There are lulls of silence between the waves of chaotic noise, and it all just feels hollow, and Derek finds himself looking around for Daniel because this sort of thing doesn’t make sense unless Daniel is standing next to him, facing down whatever hell they’re up against.

“My _family_ ,” he starts, but Luke grabs him again and slams him back against the door.

“ _Derek_ ,” Luke shouts, and the only thing that stops Derek from shaking free again is the complete shock at a Secret Service agent calling him by his first name. “Derek, so help me God, get in the car or I will knock you out myself.”

In his ear, someone says “ _Moneypenny secured,”_ and then Boyd is running at them with Laura bundled against his chest.

“Derek,” Luke shouts again. “Derek, we’ll take care of them. _Get in the fucking car_.”

Derek lets himself be stuffed in the backseat, and Laura, sobbing, lands on his lap in the next breath. Another voice in his ear says, “ _Moondance and Marlin away. Status on Magician?”_ and in the space and static between two more shots, Derek looks out over area now dotted with bodies and makes a brief, split-second moment of eye contact with Stiles that lasts for an irrationally long heartbeat. He sees Stiles process the codenames and reach the same conclusion he gets to, and he sees and _feels_ rather than hears Stiles yell, “CORA!” before the door slams shut and they’re peeling away from the curb.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” He demands, shifting Laura so she’s leaning against Maddie and scrambling up into the front passenger seat as Boyd drives. There are sirens coming from every direction, and Derek’s ears are still ringing with screams, and the crackle of silence against his eardrum means that Cora still isn’t safe.

“I don’t know, sir,” Boyd says, throwing an arm sideways across Derek’s chest as they fly through an intersection, horns blaring. “Seatbelt, sir.”

“Where are we going? Where are my parents?” Derek shouts, buckling his seatbelt when they take a corner at well over the advised speed limit.

“We’re going to a bunker, Mr. Hale,” Boyd says. “This was an assassination attempt. Protocol is to lock down the First Family immediately.”

“ _Status on Magician_?” The voice in his ear asks again, a painfully well-timed reminder that not all members of the First Family are accounted for.

They spin onto a street Derek doesn’t recognize and Boyd takes a sharp turn onto a hidden ramp that throws Derek against the door. They speed down under what looks like a parking structure and Boyd slams the brakes around the curve of the ramp, skidding them out onto a flat surface where two black sedans identical to theirs are already sitting. Sean is leaning against one, his hands on his knees. Derek almost rips his seatbelt in half trying to get out when he sees his mom, pale and spattered with blood, emerge from the other vehicle.

He actually succeeds at tearing the nails off three of his fingers when his dad, wincing and with a tie tourniqueting his leg above the knee, follows.

“Derek, Laura,” his mom says, catching them both when they rush at her in a hug. “Thank God you’re all right. Where’s Cora? Is she with you?”

Derek shakes his head mutely, feeling like he might throw up if he tries to talk, and Laura moves to their dad, who offers her a weak smile and says something about being hit in the shin.

Talia’s face pales a little more, but she squares her shoulders. “Cora will be fine. She’s a fighter.”

“She has to be fine,” Sean whispers to his shoes. “Please, God, _please_ , she _has_ to be fine.”

“Derek, will you turn that damn thing off?” Laura snaps, gesturing angrily at Derek’s pocket. “You shouldn’t have even had the fucking sound on in the first place, we were going into the fucking _State of the Union_.”

Derek pulls his phone out of his pocket, just now realizing that it’s been beeping persistently since they left the Capitol. He unlocks the screen and flicks through the flood of notifications – Twitter, tumblr, facebook, missed calls from Daniel and Paige and Lydia and people from HaleEnt. He flips to Daniel’s contact and starts writing an _I’m alive_ text, but before he can hit _Send_ the little notification box pops up again.

 

 **_Stiles Stilinski (6:52PM)_ ** _Magician secure._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the posting of chapter five, part two, we are officially HALFWAY DONE with this series!  
> ...I still have a _lot_ of work to do.
> 
> You're all unbelievably incredible. I will never stop loving you. Ever. 
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from So Let Us Create by Jukebox the Ghost.


	6. no i can't fall asleep in your arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s on the news when Stiles wakes up on Tuesday morning. He’s brushing his teeth and wondering if he’ll be allowed to sneak Starbuck into his office when the 5AM anchor’s tone switches from the routine extra-perky-because-that’s-exactly-what-anyone-up-at-this-godforsaken-hour-wants to an urgent, clipped tenor.
> 
> “…breaking news, the Crescent Conflict tensions have reached a new high as the countries of what is now being called the Eastern Coalition released a video just hours ago, announcing their plan to engage the countries of the Crescent Alliance in full-scale war by the end of the week. There’s been no official word from the White House yet, but I think we can all rest assured that this is not what Acting President McKinney signed up for.”

**March, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

By Monday afternoon, Stiles needs a break. There’s been no change in the president’s condition, antitoxins 23-27 were a bust, the delegation from Brazil showed up with twice the planned number in their party, and Rachel is an even bigger pain in the ass to work with than Lydia when she’s sunk her teeth in. He hasn’t seen Derek in almost a week, so he shoots him a quick _Mets game tonight at my place?_ text and goes back to work, responding to some of the less inane emails in his inbox until his phone dings.

 

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:40PM)_ ** _Sorry, did we have plans?_

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:40PM)_ ** _And who is this?_

If Stiles wasn’t twenty-nine, a semi-public figure, and stressed out of his goddamn mind, he’d probably face-palm. As it is, he scrolls through his contacts – and yup, Danny from Coffee is located directly above Derek Hale.

 

 **_Me (4:41PM)_ ** _Sorry! Sent to the wrong person. We met at Capitol Coffee a few days ago._

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:42PM)_ ** _Dylan, right? I was hoping you hadn’t lost my number._

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:42PM)_ ** _Crap. I’m sorry, that sounded way less creepy in my head._

 **_Me (4:43PM)_ ** _Haha don’t worry about it. I’m not really looking for anything right now, though, so…thanks, but no thanks?_

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:46PM)_ ** _How about a friend, then? I saw you at 6:30 in the morning and you already looked like you wanted to shoot yourself. No offense._

 **_Me (4:47PM)_ ** _And you thought, “Hey, that guy looks miserable. I’m going to give him my number.”_

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:47PM)_ ** _I thought, “Hey, that cute guy looks miserable. Maybe I can cheer him up.”_

 **_Me (4:48PM)_ ** _Awfully forward of you._

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:48PM)_ ** _Are you smiling?_

Stiles checks. Damnit, he is.

 

 **_Me (4:49PM)_ ** _…maybe._

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:52PM)_ ** _Then let’s call it a win for both of us. Still want me to come over to watch the Mets game?_

 **_Danny from Coffee (4:52PM)_ ** _And are you aware that we live in Washington, DC? Shouldn’t you be rooting for the Nationals?_

There’s absolutely no reason for Stiles to get to know Danny. Stiles has about two dozen plates in the air right now, and all of those plates are already overflowing. He’s got the anxious, worried Hale family rotating through twenty-four hour shifts at the hospital. The S&A team is looking into every lead they can dream up. He has reporters literally lined up outside his door to talk to him. His mother left another plate of baked goods – peanut butter cookies, this time – on his desk, and he’s starting to have trouble eating anything at all.

And it might be really, really nice to talk to someone who knows absolutely nothing about any of that.

 

A few hours later, Stiles is a little bit in love with Danny.

Not in a real way (he thinks). The way he fell in love with Lydia during Mock Trial, the way he fell in love with Laura during Talia’s campaign, the way he fell in love with Daniel Radcliffe when he started doing press for _Horns_ and turned out to be incredibly funny and much more attractive than those Hogwarts robes let on. It’s initial infatuation – that transient, intoxicating period of time when you meet someone and every new thing you learn about him is enchanting and wonderful and heady. Stiles is very familiar with this, and he lets the pleasant, comfortable atmosphere wrap around him and suspend his belief that the world will come crashing to a halt if he lets his guard down for one evening.

Danny (“Mahealani,” he laughs, correcting his contact information in Stiles’ phone) is thirty, Hawaiian, and does something in children’s publishing that he gets really expansive and passionate about after two beers and six innings. He’s easy to talk to and is the only person Stiles has ever met who can keep pace when he starts talking baseball stats. He calls Stiles _Dylan_ and though he doesn’t ask too many questions, Stiles finds himself mapping out a whole life for the Dylan version of himself. Works at HaleEnt DC (a fumbled answer when Danny caught him by surprise), originally from California, got Starbuck at from the Humane Society a year ago as a birthday present to himself. Dylan doesn’t have a complicated history with the First Son, Dylan doesn’t have two government-trained assassins on speed dial, Dylan’s kitchen table is _honestly_ just covered up because he’s planning on painting this weekend.

Danny kisses him at the end of the night. Just once, softly, standing in the doorway with one hand wrapped around the doorframe and the other touching Stiles’ hip.

“I’d say sorry, but I’d be lying,” Danny says, grinning a little. “I know I said friends, and I mean it, I just…I just figured I’d kick myself if I didn’t do that once, you know? Call me, if you want.”

Stiles closes the door behind him.

 

***

 

It’s on the news when Stiles wakes up on Tuesday morning. He’s brushing his teeth and wondering if he’ll be allowed to sneak Starbuck into his office when the 5AM anchor’s tone switches from the routine extra-perky-because-that’s-exactly-what-anyone-up-at-this-godforsaken-hour-wants to an urgent, clipped tenor.

“…breaking news, the Crescent Conflict tensions have reached a new high as the countries of what is now being called the Eastern Coalition released a video just hours ago, announcing their plan to engage the countries of the Crescent Alliance in full-scale war by the end of the week. There’s been no official word from the White House yet, but I think we can all rest assured that this is _not_ what Acting President McKinney signed up for.”

 

“We’ll start with background,” Stiles says exactly seventy-four minutes later, speaking to one of the most solemn pressrooms he’s ever faced. “Syria and Jordan struck a tentative truce almost ten years ago. The border they share with Iraq, formerly a demilitarized zone, has become one of the most unstable stretches of land in the world, and the UN held the Whitehall Convention to set guidelines barring most outside military interference in the Middle East. Five years ago, Saudi Arabia began experiencing a series of internal conflicts. President Stark decided to respect the Whitehall Convention and stay removed from the situation.”

Stiles pauses for a sip of coffee. It’s probably the only time in his memory that the room hasn’t erupted in questions the instant he stops speaking. The silence is uncomfortably present.

“The Saudi conflicts escalated rapidly in frequency and severity, culminating in their invasion of Bahrain in the early months of President Hale’s second year in office.” Stiles runs a finger down the margin of his notes, heart beating painfully in his chest. This is the part he unwillingly helped hide all those years ago, the match that lit the fuse that lead to him resigning his position. “Two weeks later, Iran sent a retaliatory invasion team. In the aftermath, we learned that Iran had been stockpiling weapons of mass destruction on Bahrainian soil. The battle to control Bahrain has been ongoing for these past three years.”

In the chaos that explodes, Stiles keeps his face calm as he drinks more coffee. He lets them shout questions, rage painting their features, while he counts to thirty in his head, then just starts speaking over them. He repeats his first sentence several times while the noise dies down.

“The Hale administration decided to keep this information from public knowledge due to its inflammatory effect and the lack of a distinct threat against the American people,” he says, the words tasting oily as they slide off his tongue. “The White House and its assets abroad continued to carefully monitor the status of the various forces at work. Two years ago, Syria, Jordan, Israel, and Saudi Arabia announced their formation of the Crescent Alliance, standing in opposition to, originally, Iraq and Iran.

“What we know about the current situation is that within the last twenty-four hours, Iraq and Iran formalized the Eastern Coalition with Pakistan and Afghanistan. In a video released to various foreign news outlets, the Eastern Coalition states their intent to engage the Crescent Alliance in full-scale war by the end of the week.”

Stiles closes his portfolio. “The US currently counts Jordan, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and all four countries of the Eastern Coalition as allies. Under the provisions for extraordinary circumstances laid out in the Whitehall Convention, Acting President McKinney would not be violating international agreement by taking action on either or both sides of the Crescent Conflict. The acting president and the Joint Chiefs will be in meetings with various other world leaders throughout the day to determine a course of action and respond to the possibility of an unregulated nuclear threat. I’ll be back every two hours to deliver any updates. No questions.”

 

***

 

Kira pulls the door to Stiles’ White House office closed behind her, and the Stilinski & Associates team is quiet for almost a full minute. Starbuck presses her nose into everyone’s hands, checking in.

"What do you need us to do?” Lydia asks.

Stiles focuses on touching the pads of his fingers to the surface of his desk while he waits for his thoughts to pan out.  It’s times like these when he hates that this office doesn’t have a whiteboard. The wood grain beneath his left index finger is worn smooth.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Lydia, you’re coming to my 1 o’clock meeting with McKinney, Deaton, and the Secretary of Defense. Scott, we need to move Kate.”

“Again?” Scott asks. “We just settled her in La Paz last week.”

“Again,” Stiles confirms. “And Isaac, go to the hospital and keep an eye on the president. I have a feeling that B6-13 is dealing from a second deck, and I’d feel better if we had eyes we could trust in place. Kira, how many federal laws would you be breaking if you tapped the phone in the Oval Office?”

“Four, off the top of my head,” Kira answers promptly.

“Well,” says Stiles, brushing today’s tray of baked goods (lemon squares) into the trashcan. “Don’t get caught.”

 

***

 

“Stiles, good,” Gilbert McKinney says, stepping forward to shake his hand. “We were just – who’s this?”

“Lydia Martin,” Stiles says, moving to the side and letting Lydia enter the Oval Office behind him. “She’s a member of my team.”

“You can’t bring civilians into discussions regarding foreign and domestic security, Stilinski,” says Secretary of Defense George Geraldo, not getting up from the couch. “Not even you can get away with that.”

Lydia sighs and walks past Stiles, her heels leaving perfect little round indents in the carpet. “How is your wife’s lover, Mr. Secretary? Still happily settled with her little art gallery in Soho?”

Geraldo’s eyes narrow. “That was you?”

“I was lead on your wife’s case, yes,” Lydia says, perching on the arm of the couch across from Geraldo and looking at him like she’s evaluating how to most efficiently eviscerate him with her nail file. “I should probably thank you for financing my summer collection of Louboutins.”  

Geraldo’s eyes narrow even further. “Who _are_ you?”

“…Lydia Martin,” Stiles repeats, taking the seat next to Lydia and shaking Deaton’s hand. “She’s a member of my team. As I’ve already said.”

“Let it go, George,” McKinney says tiredly, pouring five glasses of scotch and distributing them. “Deaton and I trust Stiles implicitly. If he vouches for her, she stays.”

Geraldo accepts the proffered glass with a hard, blank look on his face that Stiles can only attribute to military training, but doesn’t protest further.

Lydia swirls her scotch, sniffs delicately, and takes a small sip. She puts the glass down immediately, the base making a dull _thunk_ when it lightly impacts the table.

“Not to your taste, Ms. Martin?” McKinney asks, a hint of amusement playing over his features. “It’s one of the finest scotches in the world.”

“Glenmorangie eighteen-year-old single malt,” Lydia says, and Stiles lifts his own glass to his lips to hide the smirk lingering there as Geraldo’s eyes widen in surprise. “A fine drink. However, it was the favorite of my previous employer, and I’m not keen to revisit those days.”

Stiles tries to conceal the burst of worry in his chest at her words, but there’s no visible sign that Lydia’s upset beyond the slight paling of her cheeks. “Now that that’s out of the way,” he says over the momentary lapse, “How are you advising the Acting President proceed with regards to the Crescent Conflict, Mr. Secretary?”

“Preemptive strikes against the military bases of the Eastern Coalition countries,” Geraldo says. “Cripple them before this gets out of hand.”

“And violate four peace treaties, all of which were hard won and will be nearly impossible to regain?”

“They nullified the treaties when they declared war against the Crescent Alliance,” Geraldo growls.

“They haven’t declared war yet, George,” Deaton cautions. “The threat of war and an act of war are not one and the same.”

“We can’t tolerate any sort of hostility in that region,” Geraldo says. “Not with nuclear warheads on the board.”

“He’s right,” McKinney says, leaning against the _Resolute_ desk. “There’s too great a threat to public safety. Any one of those missiles could launch at any time, and we have no guarantee that the Eastern Coalition will stick to Crescent targets.”

“Forgive my pointing out the obvious, but we’ve known about the armory in Bahrain for three years,” Stiles says. “President Hale’s policies are clear. She won’t agree with a preemptive strike tactic, even with the increased hostility.”

“President Hale isn’t here,” Geraldo counters. “And I’ve been advising her to move on Bahrain since the day she was sworn in. What would _you_ suggest, Stilinski? That we all just sit on our hands until our mama comes back home to tell us what to do?”

“George!” McKinney barks. “I suggest you speak respectfully about the President of the United States while you are in this office.”

Geraldo mutters something under his breath and drains his glass, then stands. “If I may be dismissed, Mr. Vice President, I have work to do. You know my stance on the issue, and I’ll be in my office if you wish to discuss it further when the company is less…grating.”

Without waiting for confirmation of dismissal, he makes for the door. After he strides out, Patricia, the president’s executive secretary, quickly sticks her head around the still-open door.

“Sorry, sir,” she says. “Mr. Deaton, there’s a call for you on line 4. One of your staffers, says it’s urgent.”

Deaton backs out of the room, and then it’s just Stiles, Lydia, and the Acting President, who promptly collapses onto the couch across from them. A bit of scotch sloshes out onto his cuff; he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I never wanted this,” he groans to the ceiling. “Damnit, Stiles, I let you and Talia and Deaton talk me into joining the ticket and I _never_ wanted this. Be Talia’s second, be the representation of the more traditional liberals, be a counterpoint for the tough issues – fine. But I _never_ wanted this. Not this office, not the title, not the…do you know, I haven’t slept properly in seven days? Ever since I got the call that she was in the hospital. Do you know the physical toll that not sleeping for a week takes on a sixty-four-year-old man?”

“We did talk about this,” Stiles says gently. “Before we publicly announced you as her running mate, we talked about the possibility of you having to step behind that desk. You were prepared for this eventuality.”

“I know. No, I know that.” McKinney sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just didn’t think it would actually happen. Do you really think Talia would stay out of everything overseas? Peter’s been pushing the opposite way.”

“Peter – Peter _Hale_?”

"He’s the foreign policy advisor, Stiles, of course I’ve consulted him,” McKinney says. “He’s on the same page as George. He’d actually have us go further, with strikes against both sides.” 

“Attack the Eastern Coalition _and_ the Crescent Alliance?” Lydia asks, her voice coming out a little higher than usual. “But the Crescent countries haven’t shown hostility toward anyone else. And we’re allied with Jordan, Israel, and Saudi Arabia, too.”

“I’m aware of the facts, Ms. Martin,” McKinney says. He rolls his scotch between his hands, palms making soft chafing noises against the glass. “But I can’t stand idly by while a whole region blows itself up, possibly taking the rest of us with it.”

“What about diplomatic options?” Lydia presses, flipping open her little steno pad and pulling a pen out of her bun. “Moderated peace talks. Exchange of POWs. Refugee treatises with the neighboring countries in exchange for decreased aggression.”

“We don’t have time for that,” McKinney says, standing again and pacing back to the desk. “Full war by _Friday_ , Ms. Martin.”

“But what about –.”

“Hold on, Lyds,” Stiles says, cutting Lydia off. He’s been watching McKinney become more and more agitated, and now he’s pacing the carpet in front of the desk like a caged animal. Stiles has seen this look hundreds of times before – someone trapped. Desperate. Looking for a way out. “Mr. Vice President, what’s really going on?”

McKinney freezes in place for the barest fraction of a second, then resumes his measured steps. “We’re facing an impending nuclear war, Stiles, and the leader of the free world is unavailable to make the decisions we elected her to make.”

“Both valid points,” Stiles cedes. “But you don’t get rattled. Not like this.”

“I’ll be rattled if I damn well want to be,” McKinney says, fixing Stiles with a fiery glare. “You’re the reason I’m in this godforsaken position to begin with, and –.”

“No, he’s not,” Lydia interjects thoughtfully, and she matches McKinney’s flames and then some when he turns his gaze on her. “But he might be the only one who can get you out of it.”

“You know my reputation. _Our_ reputation,” Stiles self-corrects, gesturing to Lydia. “And I know the look of a man whose hands are tied by forces out of his control. We’re talking about a military strategy that may impact the course of international relations for the _foreseeable future_ , and until President Hale returns, _you_ are the embodiment of this very office. We can help you, sir, but only if you ask for it.”

The second hand on Stiles’ watch ticks preternaturally loudly in the otherwise silent office. The waning sunlight gleams a dim gold against the dust motes by the window.

“I’m being coerced,” McKinney finally says, throwing back the scotch and wincing at the burn. “There is a…third party. There’s a third party at play with information that could destroy my career and my family’s lives, and I…I don’t have the freedom to move laterally the way I need to.”

Stiles does a split-second weighing of pros and cons of what he’s about to say. Lydia, more attuned to his thought processes than even he is most days, gives a miniscule nod, so Stiles takes a breath and asks, “Claire Collins?”

Surprise and something on the border between rage and fear cross McKinney’s face before it settles on resignation. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised that you know, should I?”

“You haven’t worked with us in this capacity before,” Lydia says soothingly. She lifts her hands when Stiles tugs on her steno pad and pen, relinquishing them. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, scratching a line underneath Lydia’s notes, as though the difference between her meticulous lettering and his scrawled half-cursive won’t be plain enough. “I have one rule: complete and total honesty. If you lie to me, we’re done. Can you agree to that?”

“There are issues of national security at stake here, Stiles,” McKinney objects. “I can’t blindly agree to answer anything you ask.”

Stiles taps the end of the pen against his teeth, dodging when Lydia swipes at his hand with a scowl. “I’ll get you a new pen, Lyds. That’s fair, though – can you trust me not to ask questions that will endanger national security?”

McKinney chuckles thinly. “You’ve never met a question you didn’t like. Can we say that I won’t lie, but I reserve the right not to answer?”

Stiles makes a note. “Not ideal, but I’ll accept it under the circumstances.”

“You know the president’s attending physician, right?” McKinney asks suddenly. “Markings?”

“We’re friends, yes,” Stiles says, jotting down the questions he needs to ask. “Why?”

“Does he know when Talia will be back?”

Stiles pauses with his pen in the middle of a word. “I already gave the press an estimate.”

“’Hopefully within the week’ isn’t the answer I’m looking for,” McKinney says, looking at Stiles with pleading eyes. “It’s just…I shouldn’t be the one making this decision. It’s beyond the fact that I don’t _want_ to – I _shouldn’t_. Talia’s the president, and it should be her call. So if she’ll be back by Friday, I just need the leeway to stall for a few more days. But if she won’t and this is a choice I’ll actually have to make…”

“I understand,” Stiles says, picking up when McKinney trails off. He thinks through his most recent wee-hours-of-the-morning conversation with Allen. “Two days. Three, max. They’re closing in on the right compound.”

Lydia hums a sound of discontent. “That’s cutting it close, even assuming the president will come to consciousness fully able to evaluate the options and makes the choice.”

"Let’s not waste any more time, then,” McKinney says, pouring himself another finger of scotch. “What do you need to know?”

**November, Talia Hale’s Campaign (4.42 years ago)**

“You were amazing tonight,” Derek says, loosening Stiles’ tie and pressing him against the wall. “They showed some of the pressroom footage in the ballroom. Amazing.”

“It’s incredible,” Stiles says breathlessly, fumbling with the buttons on Derek’s shirt. He’s flushed all across his neck and cheeks, lips parted, eyes bright and dancing. “We actually did it. She won.”

“Let’s not talk about my mom right now,” Derek says, purposefully pitching his voice low and flattening his palm against Stiles’ stomach, gliding a hand down into his pants. In a remote, removed sort of way, he knows this is a stupid, unnecessary risk. They’re in a back hallway of a hotel, maybe a thirty-second walk from where the Hale/McKinney victory party is still going strong. They both have rooms up on the eighth floor. There’s no reason to risk getting caught.

Except that Derek wants to watch Stiles fall apart in his hands right here, where anyone could see them. He wants Stiles’ fingers on his belt, shaking so hard they can barely handle the buckle. And when he whispers these things in Stiles’ ear, Stiles bucks into his hand and gives a full-body shudder, his uncontrollable babble starting up again.

“ _God_ , when you talk like that,” Stiles pants, and Derek smirks and sets his teeth against Stiles’ collarbone. “I can’t even – you’re always so fucking – you really know how to _follow through_ , don’t you, and I – God, I’m so ridiculously in love with you –.”

Something fiery and blurred runs through Derek’s veins, and he pulls his hand free and backs away until the opposite wall touches his shoulders. “What did you say?”

“I – ah – what did you hear?” Stiles says, his face flicking through emotions without settling on anything. He zips himself back into his pants, clearly starting to panic a little.

“You love me,” Derek says, keeping his tone as flat as he can. The fire/blur pits deep in his chest.

"I – I mean – yes,” Stiles says, letting all the air rush out of his body at once. “Have for a few weeks.”

"You can’t,” Derek says.  And he can’t, he _can’t_ – this can’t be happening. It can’t. He’s known this was where they were headed – he knew from the very beginning that this was what it would come to, that Stiles would fall in love and get hurt. Hell, Derek pulled strings like the fucking puppetmaster he is, using the right words and the stolen looks to get to this point. He used every weapon in his arsenal to bring them to this moment.

And now it’s going to end. And Derek is – Derek is –

“Well, I do,” Stiles says, taking a slow step toward him. “And I think maybe you love me, too.”

Derek shakes his head, pressing back harder into the wall, willing it to open up and swallow him whole. “No. No, we agreed. No emotions, no getting attached.”

“Yeah, and we’ve both broken that,” Stiles says, taking another step.

“ _I_ haven’t,” Derek insists. He locks his elbow and puts up his arm so Stiles can’t get any closer, but Stiles just threads his fingers through the gaps in his own and lines up their palms.

“We’ve spent every night together since Charlotte and only had sex ten times in those three weeks,” Stiles says. “You write little notes in the margins of my books, and I don’t want to kill you for it. I talk straight through movies, and _you_ don’t want to kill _me_ for it. You look at me across the table when something makes you smile to see if I get the joke, and I look at you whenever a plane or chopper flies too close overhead to make sure you’re okay.”

Derek wants to say something. Wants to tell Stiles that all of those moments between them are fabricated, that he’s been designing this since the beginning, that Stiles is just the next in Derek’s string of misadventures.

But, see, Derek hadn’t realized that he looks at Stiles to see if he gets the jokes. And he hadn’t realized that Stiles checks in on him to make sure he’s not jolted back into a memory of being overseas.

He hadn’t realized how perfectly their hands fit together.

“It’s okay if you’re scared,” Stiles says. “It’s okay if you don’t want to admit it, it’s okay if you’re not ready. But please, Derek, _please_ stop telling me you don’t care about me at all, because that just fucking _hurts_ , and I don’t deserve it.”

This is another one of those moments when Derek can very clearly see what’s going to happen. He knows exactly which words to say to fragment Stiles into a million pieces, right here in this hallway. It will be cold and awful and Derek will hate himself for it and Stiles will hate him for it more, but it’ll be done. Ended. The pain will be finite. They’ll go their separate ways and recover.

But Stiles’ words are speaking directly to the blur of fire that’s welding its way through Derek’s sternum, and for a second can see he other way this could go. He could tell Stiles that he’s confused and uncertain, that he doesn’t know how to feel this way about someone, that he’s spent twenty-six years consciously forcing his emotions into submission and never getting involved past a certain point, but that he maybe – he thinks – sort of – wants to try? That Stiles has somehow wormed his way past Derek’s habitually enforced walls, and Derek could maybe – he thinks – sort of – eventually – love him?

Derek is torn. Split down the center. Riven along a line that starts with the impassable lump in his throat and runs to the chasm that’s opening up behind his bellybutton. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t _know_ , and Stiles is just standing there _looking_ at him over their entwined fingers with hope in his eyes and a cautious, pleading smile on his lips, and Derek doesn’t _know_ –

But Derek knows that he’s not a good guy. And he knows that, if he should venture down route two, it can only end badly. Stiles doesn’t deserve to be Derek’s first, experimental, real relationship – he deserves infinitely more than that. They might be happy for awhile, but ultimately, inescapably, through honest mistake or conscious choice, Derek will screw it up in some horrible, unforgiveable, irreparable way.

And they won’t recover from that.

So Derek extricates his hand, sets his jaw, looks Stiles dead in the eye, and says, “You were a fun fuck. But that’s it.”

Stiles leaves his hand suspended in the now unbreachable space between them, stunned. “Derek, _please_.”

“I’m done,” Derek says, and he makes himself plant his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and shove. “I told you not to get your personal shit involved. Your _feelings_ aren’t my problem.”

Stiles hits the wall, and it looks like the air gets knocked out of his chest. “Please don’t do this.”

A voice in Derek’s head is screaming, _screaming_ at him to stop. But he blocks it out so he can smirk and say, “Are you honestly telling me that you didn’t see this coming?”

“You’re lying,” Stiles says, his voice cracking, and it takes every bit of willpower Derek has not to break.

“No, Stiles, you’re lying to yourself,” he says, and he forces his numb fingers to button his shirt, straighten his tie, adjust his belt buckle. He steels himself to say the words with as much disdain as he can muster, and he hates himself as they come out. “I’m Derek fucking Hale. Did you really think there could be something serious between me and someone like you?”

It takes a full second for Stiles’ face to close off against the attack. It takes another full second for Derek’s knees to unlock.

It’s not until the third second that Derek realizes that someone at the end of the hallway is talking.

“Okay, so I have to say, I’m not even sure what my favorite part of that was,” says a woman with a camera perched on her shoulder. “Derek Hale, the president-elect’s son, creating a mild gay sex tape. Derek Hale, the president-elect’s son, creating a mild gay sex tape _with his mother’s press secretary_. Or Derek Hale, the president-elect’s son, being a completely heartless bag of dicks to his mother’s press secretary immediately after creating a mild gay sex tape with him. I’ll probably just let it roll out in installments, because this shit is gold.”

Derek sees red and lunges toward her, but Stiles’ fingers clamp onto his arm and he can feel them burning even through his jacket and shirt sleeves. “Don’t bother with the camera,” Stiles says. “It’s probably got real-time upload using Wi-Fi, right?”

The woman grins. “Points for having a brain, Stiles. Shame that you can’t use it to pick better men.”

If Derek were the type to roar, this is when he would roar.

Stiles, though, just smiles back. “Give us a moment, would you?” He says pleasantly, then drags Derek bodily toward the fire exit at the end of the hall. He shoves Derek at it, releasing his arm, and Derek wonders if he’ll have fingerprints permanently branded into his skin.

That’s certainly how it feels.

“Go,” Stiles says. “I’ll handle this.”

Derek shakes his head. “We have to do something.”

“No,” Stiles says, rolling out his shoulders. “ _I_ have to do something. And I can’t do what I need to do until you’re not here anymore, so _go_.”

“Stiles –.”

“Shut. Up,” Stiles hisses. “Stop talking. The longer you stand here, the worse it gets.”

“ _Stiles_ –.”

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, and Derek hears that edge of something darker and sharper in Stiles’ tone. “If you have ever trusted me about _anything_ , trust me on this. _Leave_.”

Derek isn’t proud of this, but he leaves. He _runs_. He slams into the door at top speed and does three full circuits of the block at a dead sprint, pushing until his legs and lungs are burning and he can’t hear himself think over his pulse pounding against the inside of his skull.

 

He wakes up on the floor of Laura’s hotel room some time later. There’s an empty bottle of whiskey next to his head. There’s a blanket tangled around his legs. There are more than a dozen texts to Stiles on his phone that he doesn’t remember sending.

He can still feel Stiles’ fingers on his arm.

 

When he tells Laura and Cora what happened, he omits everything about the woman with the camera on instinct. Laura yells. Cora leaves the room in disgust.

 

Three days later, Stiles leaves. Back to California. He doesn’t say goodbye.

 

Derek calls and texts and emails, but Stiles doesn’t answer.

The video never surfaces.

           

In January, Derek moves to Boston with his Secret Service detail in tow and starts business school at Harvard. Laura and Cora start talking to him again. He goes to class and makes friends on campus.

 

In March, Derek attends Daniel’s wedding.

 

In early May, Derek wakes up to a reminder on his phone that Stiles graduates from Stanford Law in two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a couple hours late with the posting of this, guys - American Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I had a cross-country trek to complete. 
> 
> Derek's perspective on Election Day was astonishingly difficult to write. What do you think?
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Torero by San Fermin.


	7. that daylight calls to hearts of those that mean to run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That wasn’t about you,” Stiles says, mimicking the words he’d used on his father’s porch. This time, though, he says it with sarcasm-tinged affection.
> 
> “I figured as much,” Derek says, still watching him carefully. Does he look thinner? It’s hard to tell with the jacket. “Want to tell me what it was about?”
> 
> Stiles picks up the cups and forks. “World peace.”

**March, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

Cora’s birthday is Tuesday the 30th, but there’s no planned celebration. It’s not right, Derek thinks – you should be guaranteed some sort of party when you turn 25, you’re a quarter-century old for fuck’s sake – but no one’s in the mood for it, not with one-fifth of the immediate family still wired into every machine known to man in the chilly hospital room they’ve all adopted as a semi-permanent waystation. They gather in room C114 as the day is winding to a close, just the five of them: Derek standing between Cora and Laura, their dad in the ever-present armchair at their mother’s side. Erica and an agent Derek doesn’t recognize stand silent watch outside the door, their backs turned. It almost feels private, but a nurse swings by every so often and Dr. Markings (“Allen,” he insists for the tenth time, shaking everyone’s hands. “I think it’s safe to say we’re on a first-name basis now.”) stops in to give them the same update he gave earlier today, the same as yesterday, the same as Monday.

_We’re getting closer. Version forty-three is only off by the tiniest variance. If it were anyone other than the president, it’d be good enough. We’ll have the answer soon. Soon. Soon. Soon._

For the most part, though, it’s just the five of them, and it’s quiet. Peaceful. The beeps and whirs from the machines fade into the background, monotonous and commonplace by this point, and Derek can almost pretend that he isn’t staring at the prone, wan form of the woman who used to give him piggyback rides around the kitchen.

At 11:57PM, the doorwall slides open and Stiles lets himself in, breathing heavily and clutching a big white box to his chest. Starbuck trots in at his heels and immediately starts sniffing everyone in greeting, including poking her nose up onto the bed to take a whiff of Talia’s skid-proof socks.

Stiles deposits the box gently on the little dresser and checks his watch. “Thank God,” he says, keeping his voice down to a hospital-approved level. “Thought I was going to miss it entirely. Sorry I’m late, there’s been – you know.” He leaves the thought open-ended with a twirl of his wrist, probably meant to indicate the situation in the Middle East and other White House stuff that Derek’s only aware of by proxy. Stiles moves around the bed and folds Cora into a hug. “Happy 25th, Cora.”

Cora lets out a strangled little sob and digs her fingers into his jacket. “I wouldn’t have even had a 24th if it weren’t for you.”

He pulls back and sets his forehead to hers, and Derek feels like he’s intruding on a personal moment by watching when Stiles says sternly, “Hey. We agreed. No mentioning the whole me-saving-your-life thing unless I’m asking you for a favor.”

She laughs, and though the sound is weak and quiet, it’s genuine. The pall over the room lifts ever so slightly, and Derek thinks that he might, for the first time, fully appreciate what Stiles means when he says that he’s a fixer.

Stiles moves down the line, hugging each Hale in turn, until he gets to Talia. He squeezes her hand and says something quiet into her ear, then flips back to them with a low-watt smile that fills the room and Derek’s chest. Derek has seen a couple new facets of Stiles over the past several months, but this one – the Stiles that knows exactly how to behave in a hospital, who consciously adjusts his volume so that it brings everyone up a few notches without seeming disruptive – still makes Derek feel a little raw, because he knows this Stiles only exists due to the week he spent in the hospital when his own mother was dying.

Not that Talia is dying.

She’s _not_.

_We’re getting closer. Soon, soon._

“Okay,” Stiles says, taking Cora’s hand and tugging her toward the cupboard. He extracts a slightly mangled-looking chocolate-frosted cake from the box and pulls a box of electric candles out of his pocket, then unlatches his messenger bag (and God, someone needs to get him a new one of those before the strap breaks) and produces two tall bottles. “I’ve got cake, champagne, and sparkling apple juice for those of us in the family way. Laura, get Dixie cups from the bathroom. Cora, darling, if you wouldn’t mind opening the bottles, that would be lovely. Starbuck, sure, you keep drooling on David’s pants, I’m sure he loves that. Derek, come with me to steal paper plates and plastic forks from the nurses’ lounge?”

Derek obediently follows Stiles into the hallway, letting his hand brush against Cora’s on the way past. They walk side-by-side as the hall clocks flip over from 11:59 to 12:00, and just like that, it’s April. Their elbows rub lightly every few steps and the rubber soles of their shoes echo impossibly loudly, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you,” Derek finally manages as they turn into the nurses’ lounge. “For doing this.”

“One of the things I’ve learned over the years is not to miss any excuse to celebrate,” Stiles says, opening cupboards and drawers. “Especially not a legitimate one. Ah, jackpot!” He pulls a handful of paper plates and cups down from a cabinet, then goes back for forks. “I’m just sorry I’m so late. Work’s been…busy.”

Derek holds out his hands and takes the plates, watching Stiles arrange the forks into one of the cups for easy transportation. “White House work or S&A work?”

“Both,” Stiles says, not meeting Derek’s eyes. He fiddles with an outlying fork. “You know about what’s going on with the Crescent Conflict?”

“A little. I haven’t been watching the news much, though – they talk about my mom every five minutes and I don’t really need the reminder.”

“Makes sense.”

They both fall silent, and they have what they came here to get, but Stiles doesn’t make a move toward the door and Derek’s not inclined to break this tiny little moment just yet. This is the first time they’ve seen each other since last week, and Derek is struck by just how much he _missed_ Stiles, missed having his physical presence around. It’s funny, Derek thinks, watching Stiles stare unseeing at the cup of forks, how integral to your very being someone becomes when you make an effort to see each other in person a few times a week. Derek remembers Scott saying once that Stiles built the S &A team into each other with bricks and mortar and dynamite, and he wonders if that’s what he and Stiles have been doing for the past nearly six months – building themselves into one another.

A muffled sound knocks Derek out of his musings, and he realizes in alarm that Stiles, now hunched over the counter, has his face buried in the elbow of his jacket. A heaving gasp of air wracks his body again, and before Derek’s brain has a chance to catch up he’s around the counter and intending to wrap Stiles in his arms, but Stiles picks up on the motion and straightens with an arm outheld to keep Derek at bay. His face is blotched with red and his eyes are a little unfocused.

“I’m fine,” he says, alternating between huge gasps and these shallow little pants that make Derek’s lungs burn in sympathy. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just – just give me a minute.”

Derek watches him, uncertain, doubt spiking fear into his mind as he remembers the one panic attack he’s actually seen Stiles have. At his father’s funeral. “Do you want me to call Scott?”

“No! No, damnit – damnit, I’ll be _fine_.” Stiles drops back over the counter, his forehead butting up against his fists, and Derek hovers on the balls of his feet. They’re in a hospital, there would be ten medical professionals here in seconds if he calls for them.

It takes another a minute – Derek watches the hand on the wall clock make a full circle – but Stiles’ breathing evens out and the coloring in his cheeks starts to normalize. He stands slowly this time, cracking his neck and rolling out his shoulders. It’s the same sequence he goes through just before sparring, some useless part of Derek’s part recognizes.

“That wasn’t about you,” Stiles says, mimicking the words he’d used on his father’s porch. This time, though, he says it with sarcasm-tinged affection.

“I figured as much,” Derek says, still watching him carefully. Does he look thinner? It’s hard to tell with the jacket. “Want to tell me what it _was_ about?”

Stiles picks up the cups and forks. “World peace.”

“Be serious, Stiles.”

“I am.” Stiles closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, and when he looks at Derek again, his eyes are focused again. “Sorry. It’s just been…it’s just been a really rough few weeks. You know? Who am I kidding, of course you know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to…sorry.”

Derek catches Stiles by the elbow as he tries to leave, holding him in place for just a second. At moments like this, when Stiles seems to be pulled in so many directions that he’s always flitting from one place, one emotion, one thought to the next, Derek just wants to grab Stiles and make him _stay_. If only for a minute, Derek wants to be that safe place where Stiles can land.

“It goes both ways,” he says, consciously not trying to make eye contact because he knows Stiles will look away. Stiles doesn’t do eye contact when he’s vulnerable, not unless he’s feeling defensive and putting on a front. And Derek doesn’t want Stiles to be defensive, not for this. “What you said in my apartment last week. If nothing else, we’re friends, and I care about you. So you get to call me if you need someone.”

He can feel Stiles smiling, and he doesn’t need to look over to know that it’s small and sad and mostly broken. “The phone-a-friend option is pretty much nonexistent in my line of work, Derek,” he says. “But thank you for offering.”

 

***

 

“No change?” Daniel asks, taking one look at Derek’s face when he opens the door on Wednesday night.

“No change,” Derek confirms, standing back to let him in. “The doctor seemed confident during the last update, though. He said they’ve got the FDA guy on standby to approve results of the next batch.”

“That’s great! Sounds like she’s almost out of the woods,” Daniel says, heading for the kitchen and unpacking his bags of takeout. “Have you been to this place, corner of Raymond and Foster? Callista’s, or Calypso, something like that. I heard great things about the food, and the head chef’s freaking gorgeous. Allison something.”

“Calistoga? Allison Argent’s restaurant?” Derek follows the smell of freshly cut basil into the kitchen and pulls plates out of the cupboard.

“Yeah, that’s it – wait, Argent? As in, related-to-your-psychotic-ex-fiancé Argent?” Daniel unceremoniously dumps a container of some sort of divine-smelling pasta onto a plate.

“Allison’s Kate’s niece,” Derek says. He scavenges through the fridge to find one of the IPAs Laura left the last time she was here and hands it to Daniel. “I’ve met her a few times. She’s actually good friends with Stiles – she’s been dating his best friend for a few years.”

“And when do _I_ get to meet Stiles?” Daniel asks, forking half a filet onto each plate. “You talk about him all the time and his face keeps popping up on TV, but I’ve yet to actually meet the man who’s brought the almighty Kingpin to his emotionally-needy knees.”

Derek digs for steak knives in the mess of utensils that is his cutlery drawer, replaying Stiles having a small breakdown in the nurses’ lounge not even twenty-four hours earlier. “He’s got a lot going on right now. Might not be the best time.”

“He’s the White House Press Secretary, right?” Daniel says, grabbing his plate and beer and heading for the couch. “Is he ever going to _not_ have a lot going on?”

“I think it’s more than that,” Derek hems, adding a side of green beans to his own plate before leaving the kitchen. “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. When he’s open about something, he’ll tell anyone anything about it. But when he decides to keep something to himself for whatever reason, he walls up faster than Anton Jones when you asked about his poetry.”

Daniel laughs around a mouthful of steak and pasta. “That shit was _awful_.”

“’Your heart is the best, superb above the rest,’” Derek quotes, fondly remembering that night at the Cairo base. The memory doesn’t stay long, though, and then he’s back to thinking about Stiles. “He’s keeping something from me. Has been for a long time, actually,” he amends, recalling the whispers that started in the Stilinski & Associates office after Kate’s disappearance.

“It’s tough when they’re liars,” Daniel says, lapsing for just that sentence into the heavy Southern drawl that he usually disguises unless he’s incredibly drunk or incredibly worked up about something.

“I’m not saying Stiles is a _liar_ , I’m just – wait,” Derek says, his own slighter drawl coming out in response. He looks up and catches Daniel spinning his wedding band around on his finger. “Is something going on with you and Sarah?”

“Nothing a little couple’s therapy can’t fix, according to her,” Daniel sighs, taking a swig of his beer. “A _lot_ of couple’s therapy, actually.”

Derek peels the stem off a green bean, completely uncertain how to have this conversation. “How long’s it been bad?”

Daniel snorts. “How long’ve we been living in DC now?”

Derek chokes on the bean. “Since October?”

Daniel nods morosely. “Her whole family’s back in California, and all her friends. _I_ think she hasn’t made an effort to get to know anyone at Andrews or in the District, but she’s been taking vacations back west that keep getting longer and longer. She’s been there for two weeks. I’m not sure when she’s coming back.”

“Shit, Tomcat,” Derek says, falling back to Daniel’s callsign. “I’m sorry.”

Daniel shakes his head, putting what looks like a forced grin on his face. “No, I’m sorry for dumping it on you when you’ve got your mom to worry about. You still heading down to New Orleans next week for that party?”

“The London branch opening,” Derek says, going along with the painfully obvious topic change only because Daniel looks so incredibly uncomfortable. “If my mom’s back on her feet, sure. My dad’ll probably stay up here to be near her either way, and we should have at least _one_ Hale in attendance at a Hale Enterprises event. Hey, want to come with me? Get away for a few days?”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “Some of us don’t set our own hours, Hale. Some of us might get sent back overseas if we end up going to war over this clusterfuck in the Middle East.”

Derek drops his fork and it clatters to the floor. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Did you get deployment orders?”

“Not yet,” Daniel says, shaking his head. “But there are rumors coming down the pipeline. What’s left of our squad has knowledge of the area. It makes sense.”

"You’d be okay with that?”

“Orders are orders,” Daniel says with a shrug. “I’m one of the idiots who joined up because I actually believe in patriotic duty, so I’ll serve where I’m asked. Besides, with things going the way they are here – you all heartsick over your lying press secretary, my wife already on the other side of the country – I figure it can’t be much worse over there.”

           

**March, Year Two of Talia Hale’s First Term (3 years ago)**

“I won’t do this,” Stiles says, reading over the sheet of bullet points he’s supposed to take into the pressroom. “I won’t.”

“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Stiles,” Talia says, her eyes hooded and dangerous.

“You know Stiles doesn’t come _without_ his opinions, Talia,” Peter says lazily, lounging in one of the armchairs.

“You call her _Madam President_ or _President Hale_ when we are in this room, Peter,” Stiles spits, and the words are stale on his tongue because they’ve had this exact exchange five or six times before. Peter’s casual disrespect, his habit of showing up in meetings uninvited, his sheer _presence_ in the West Wing ever since Talia made him the new foreign policy director after Tina Wei’s death seems strategically designed to drive Stiles to the breaking point – and he’s just about there.

It’s been five days of this. Five days since they received confirmation that Iranian-occupied Bahrain is being used as an assembly and storage facility for nuclear missiles. Unregistered, unregulated nuclear missiles. An unknown number of nuclear missiles. The few who know about it have been playing it close to the chest while the top brass make decisions about how to proceed, but now it’s Friday and the window in which Stiles can explain away understandable lag time in transmitting this information to the press is closing. He responded to the drop-everything-and-get-to-the-Oval call under the assumption that he’d be briefed on the military strategy they’re going with, or sanctions the UN is going to slap on Iran. Instead, Deaton handed him a piece of paper that essentially says _There is no war in Ba Sing Se_ , and Stiles is not comfortable with where this conversation is going.

On top of what’s going on within these walls, Stiles had woken up to a voicemail from Lydia using the tone she puts on when she’s trying not to cry, asking Stiles to please come to New York if he can. He also had four texts from her, sent in the minutes after that message was recorded, telling him that she’s just being silly and he should ignore her.

So, Stiles is…tightly wound.

“You’ve spun stories before, Stiles,” Deaton says, flicking through his own, significantly more robust, briefing packet. “In fact, I believe it’s in your job description.”

“This isn’t _spinning_ a story,” Stiles says, barely managing to keep his voice from shaking in anger. “This is _blatantly lying_ to the American people about a potentially _catastrophic_ situation in the Middle East.”

“This is protecting the public from undue panic over a threat that may not amount to anything,” Peter says. “We’re at peace with Iran, Saudi Arabia, and nearly every other country in the region. There’s no credible reason to believe that the weapons will be launched against us. Or that they’ll be launched at all – the whole region is at peace.”

Stiles stares at him. “Is ‘peace’ the word we’re using to describe the year and a half they’ve spent fighting over 300 square miles of island in the Persian Gulf? Because I’m pretty certain that the _hundreds_ of Saudi Arabians, Iranians, and Bahrainians who’ve died over the armory at Riffa would object to that classification.”

“Stiles,” Laura cautions, but Stiles talks over her.

“But we’re keeping that a secret too, aren’t we?” He says. “For reasons _none of you_ will tell me, we’re letting the entire country keep believing that Bahrain is safely under Saudi protection.”

“Stiles –.”

“I’ve been evading questions about it since _December_ when that document about the formation of the Crescent Alliance leaked, and you won’t even tell me _why_ –.”

“Enough,” Talia says, and Stiles falls silent. Out of respect for the office, maybe, or the fact that Talia has always been able to say enough with a single word to stop any discussion in its tracks. “Stiles, you serve at the pleasure of the president. Are you _honestly_ going to stand in the Oval Office and tell me that you refuse to follow a direct order from your Commander in Chief?”

 

***

 

“Stiles, Stiles! What about the Crescent Alliance?”

“What about the Crescent Alliance, Matt?” Stiles says, looking out over his pressroom a few hours later.

“Some people are saying that it’s sign of escalating tensions in the Middle East,” says Matt. “That it’s an omen of war.”

Stiles tries to ignore the growing unease in his stomach as he gives his memorized answer, matching word for word what’s written on the sheet in his portfolio. “The Crescent Alliance, as I’ve said before, is a _peaceful_ association of Israel, Jordan, Syria, and Saudi Arabia, four countries which have experienced innumerable conflicts in the past. I fail to see how that’s an omen of war.”

“Follow-up,” Matt says quickly. “So there’s no truth to the rumors that there’s more going on in the Middle East?”

“Like what?”

“Pictures hit international media yesterday of ongoing protests in Bahrain.”

Stiles doesn’t have notes on this. No one told him about this, and he thinks – for just a second – that it would be easy. To say something just slightly wrong, a slip of the tongue that points the smarter correspondents in the right direction. No one could blame him, because no one _prepped him_ for this question. It would be a simple thing to do, and then he’d sleep better at night and not feel like he’s digging his own grave.

But, instead, he lies. Instead, he says, “I’ve seen those pictures, and the ones that aren’t completely fake are well over a year old with doctored date- and timestamps. To the best of my knowledge and the best of the president’s knowledge, everything in the Middle East is proceeding as usual. If that changes, when I know, you’ll know. Next question.”

 

 

***

 

Stiles leaves his letter of resignation on Talia’s desk in the Oval Office before the start of business hours the next day.

By 9AM, he’s on a train to Manhattan. It’ll take him four hours to get there, so he settles in against a window and cracks open his book – maybe the sixth try is the charm with _War and Peace_.

“Doing some light reading?” A voice asks a few stops in, and Stiles looks up to see a startlingly cute man in a beanie and glasses looking at him. “Crap, sorry, that sounded like a pick-up line – I’m just looking for somewhere to sit, I swear. Do you mind?”

Stiles laughs a little and takes a look around. As expected, the DC to NYC train is pretty packed on a Saturday morning. “Sure, not a problem. And would you believe I’m trying to make myself a better person?”

“By reading twelve hundred pages of Tolstoy?” The guy settles in next to him. “You can’t possibly be _such_ an awful person that _that’s_ the only penance that’ll do the trick. God, that sounded like a pick-up line too, didn’t it?”

Stiles laughs again, a little more genuine this time. “Sort of, yeah.

The guys twists in his seat so he’s facing Stiles and holds out his hand. “Okay, let’s try this again. Hi, I’m Allen Markings.”

Stiles shakes. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“I know,” Allen says, and immediately blushes. “Oh my _God_. Just – kill me and put me out of my misery. I just mean – you’re the White House Press Secretary, right? You’re on the news a lot, and you’ve got a distinctive name, and I – I’m shutting up now.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles chuckles. “You headed to New York, Allen?”

Allen nods and untwists, leaning back against the headrest. “My youngest sister’s at Columbia. I’m meeting her boyfriend this weekend. How about you?”

Stiles shuts his book. “I’ve got a friend in Manhattan who…you know, I’m not really sure yet. But I’ve got a friend in Manhattan, and I think she needs help.”

“Taking a weekend to help a friend?” Allen raises his eyebrows. “Told you you aren’t a bad person.”

“It’s all relative,” Stiles says. “I actually quit my job this morning, so I think that put s a couple tallies in the negative column.”

“You quit your job? As White House Press Secretary? You can do that? Just…quit?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s a long story, and I’m pretty sure I’d be tried for treason if I told you half of it,” he says, keeping his tone light. “How about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor,” Allen says with a grin that could probably be used to sell toothpaste. Or jawlines. Or, you know, _anything_. “Fourth-year neurosurgery resident at James Madison.”

Stiles whistles. “That’s impressive.”

“I get paid to poke at people’s brains with sharp objects,” Allen says. “Have you ever _seen_ the human brain? In a live person, while it’s still responsible for _every single_ impulse, reaction, or transmission that’s keeping that person alive? I swear, you can _feel_ how – I’m grossing you out.”

“No!” Stiles says. “Well, a little.”

“Okay, steering for safer waters,” Allen says, drumming his fingers on his knees. “So, what are you going to do with your life, now that you’re not yoked to the White House anymore?”

The train rumbles through another stop, and the flashing sign overhead says they’ll pass through Baltimore in twenty-two minutes.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “But I think it’s going to be awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry I'm a couple hours late again - blame traffic on I-75. 
> 
> Happy last update of November, my loves! I shall do my best to respond to the backlogged comments and messages on Monday before I post Chapter 8!
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Words of our Waking by Jayber Crow.


	8. i'm locked inside a cell in me/i know that there's a jail in you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I warned you about getting involved,” Claudia says, circling the table slowly. Stiles subconsciously mirrors her. “I told you what would happen if you became a threat to the stability of the republic.”
> 
> “Preventing us from firebombing countries we’re at peace with is not a threat to the stability of the republic,” Stiles growls. Starbuck, distressed and confused, skitters underfoot and whines.

**April, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

Stiles gets back to his apartment around 1AM on Thursday, numbers and names and correct spellings still bouncing around his head from his last meeting with a group of up-and-coming bloggers who wanted details on the Brazilian delegation’s visit. Starbuck shoves around him as soon as he wedges the door open and bounds over to the kitchen table – where his mother is standing, dropcloth pulled back, tracing the Post-it collage with feather-light touches.

“You had to make a mosaic in fourth grade,” she says, ignoring Starbuck entirely. “Do you remember? It was hideous, you used macaroni and beans instead of the tiles, but we hung it on the wall in your dad’s office for years.”

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, edging into the room and closing the door behind him.

“You moved the vice president’s little problem to Belgium,” Claudia says. She peels a pink Post-it off the table so slowly that Stiles can hear the _shhhhhhh-fwick_ of the sticky coming undone. “That’s not a solution, it’s merely a nuisance. A delay tactic.”

“It’s effective,” Stiles says. “If you don’t have leverage over McKinney, he can hold out on making the decision for as long as possible. Until the president wakes up, and you know she won’t agree to preemptive strikes against either side.”

“I warned you about getting involved,” she says, circling the table slowly. Stiles subconsciously mirrors her. “I told you what would happen if you became a threat to the stability of the republic.”

“Preventing us from firebombing countries we’re at peace with is _not_ a threat to the stability of the republic,” Stiles growls. Starbuck, distressed and confused, skitters underfoot and whines.

“It is when the alternative is a nuclear World War Three,” Claudia says. “You think you understand, but I _guarantee_ that you don’t. I _guarantee_ that if we do not intervene in the Crescent Conflict by Friday, the world will face cross-continental nuclear fallout of catastrophic proportions, and when it does, it will be on _your head_.” A fleeting bit of emotion crosses her face and she swings an arm over the table, ruffling Post-its in her wake. It’s a gesture that Stiles himself has made countless times. “Look at what you’ve put together here, and tell me – if I’m Command of the organization you have laid out, I’m the most powerful woman in the world, correct?”

“Correct,” Stiles says through gritted teeth.

“And I have, hundreds of times, made difficult decisions and given orders that ultimately protected the republic. Correct?”

“Presumptive,” Stiles counters, moving forward and jabbing his finger at the Post-its marked in pink highlighter – the acts that S&A haven’t been able to tie to any domestic or foreign affairs. They far outnumber the non-highlighted notes. “All of these – they’re not linked to anything. You disappeared BryanAir Flight 813 two years ago. Why? I’ve been over the passenger manifest, I’ve read through the cargo lists – there was _nothing_ and _no one_ on that flight who had any connection to _anything_ that would justify eliminating two hundred and six people.”

“That plane was scheduled to immediately return to Dulles,” she says. “The return flight, BryanAir 1034, would have carried six members of a fringe group of neo-liberals who had spent six months planning the hijacking of that plane with designs on crashing it into the White House.”

Stiles’ fingers crumple the Post-it without his consent. “You’re lying.”

She gives him a sharp, disapproving look. “You know better than that.”

Stiles lowers himself into a chair. Starbuck, evidently content with the situation now, pads her way into the living room and out of sight. “Are you going to tell me that you have reasons for all the rest of these, too? That biotech company whose backup files were erased overnight, the school bus that fell off the Halliday Bridge into the lake, Bella Lorgnette’s kidnapping?”

“We don’t have time for that,” she says. “You need to _trust me_ and –.”

“Trust you? _Trust you_?” Stiles repeats, his voice rising and his lungs starting to seize up again. He should have just spent the night in his office again. “Trust _you_ , when you _left_ ten years ago and haven’t even told me _why_?”

“I was bored,” Claudia says plainly. “Is that what you want to hear? I was bored out of my skull, Stiles. I was a highly skilled, incredibly talented B6-13 field agent when I met your father by chance on a routine op and make the stupid mistake of falling in love with him. I had enough favor with Command to land a desk in our California office when you came along, and I married your father and for seventeen years it was _fine_. I was a wife and a mother and you were the light and the joy that I’d been missing for _so long_ , but it wasn’t enough. Teaching _kindergarten_ by day and keeping the California B6-13 office running when your father wasn’t looking – I was withering away. I was trained to do more, to _be_ more. You were going to be starting college; you wouldn’t need me anymore. So I devised an exit strategy.”

“The car crash,” Stiles says numbly. He feels like his brain is immersed in molasses or tar or something else that’s tacking his thoughts to the floor of his skull; he can’t move from one sentence to the next fast enough to compile any of this into a story that makes sense. “The car crash was your exit strategy?”

She actually grins at that, and seeing her warm smile jolts Stiles back into his childhood so strongly that he gets dizzy. “Brilliant, wasn’t it? I planned the entire thing. The other driver was another B6-13 agent. I told him exactly when we’d be coming back from your dad’s sister’s house, made sure he knew to hit the driver’s door, got your dad to drink enough that I’d have to drive and put those leftovers on the seat behind me so you’d be on the passenger side, too. I started faking those tension headaches _weeks_ before Thanksgiving so there’d be a history of symptoms when the ‘stroke’ caused me to run that red light and get us hit.”

Stiles shakes his head. His breath is shallow but steady, a stubborn _in-woosh in-woosh_ that isn’t quite in line with his heartbeat. He swears that sometimes he can feel the scar tissue in his right lung and ribs, forcing him to breathe and pulse and exist a little unevenly. “You were in the hospital for a week afterwards. I saw the test results. You died.”

She frowns at him, the way she used to when he refused to do his homework on the grounds that revisionist history was no better than teaching fairy tales as truth. “I’m Command. I’m personally responsible for the deaths of fourteen people in the past year and facilitated the deaths of one hundred and twelve more. Do you really think I can’t fake a few test results and bribe a doctor into declaring me braindead?”

“Dad had to decide to take you off life support,” Stiles says. He wishes Scott were here – he could really, _really_ use a grounding force right about now. “After that doctor said you were never coming back, Dad had to decide to pull the plug. We had a funeral. You have a grave in the Beacon Hills Cemetery – who the hell is in that coffin?”

“A very nice homeless woman matching my height and build,” Claudia says. “And the funeral was lovely, Bug. Your eulogy was quite touching; I had it video-taped.”

“Don’t call me that,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, all too aware of how his right lung is hitching at the apex of every breath. “You killed an innocent woman to fill your coffin?”

“A small sacrifice so that I’d be free to return to serving my country,” she says. “It was painless, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Dad _died,_ ” Stiles croaks, “He _died_ and you weren’t there. I buried him next to you – but that’s not even you. You let me _bury Dad_ next to a _stranger_ that you _killed_.”

Claudia’s gaze flicks down to her hands for just a second, so fast that Stiles might have imagined it. “I visit his grave once a year. I bring daffodils. I’m not heartless.”

Stiles can’t find the words to form a cogent response to that, so he just stutters, “I don’t believe you.”

 “Stiles,” she says, running her fingers along the back of a chair. “If you believe nothing else I’ve told you tonight, believe this: I loved your father. I loved him, and I love you.”

“You’re insane,” Stiles says in a choked whisper. “You’re not capable of _love_. You’re a _serial killer_.”

“You’ve forgiven Isaac,” Claudia says, her clipped tone returning. “And you trust him now – why not do the same for me?”

“Isaac was _fourteen_ when B6-13 took him,” Stiles says. Something moves in his periphery – Starbuck, probably, coming back to check on things. “He was a child, and an abused one at that.”

“And he was an excellent agent until he met you,” Claudia says. “But then, the survivors of traumatic childhoods often _are_ the best fits for B6-13. Isn’t that right, Malia?”

Stiles’ heart absolutely stops when Malia steps fully into view, pistol with silencer leveled at his chest. “That’s been my experience, yes,” she says.

All Stiles can think is that he’s not sure if he turned off the lights in his office when he left for the day, and that Kira will probably be mad if he left them on. Kira’s on a big pro-environment kick.

“You know what to do,” Claudia says, buckling the belt of her coat and moving towards the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

***

 

Stiles has never had the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead before. In this moment, he supposes he should be a lot of things – terrified, confused, angry, repentant of sins, begging for mercy.

Mostly, though, he’s just relieved that he doesn’t piss himself.

“Malia,” he tries, but the look she gives him kills the rest of the words before they even have a chance to become fully formed. She dials her phone with her spare hand, tucks it between her ear and her shoulder, and pulls a handful of zip-ties out of her pocket.

“It’s me,” she says into the phone, securing Stiles’ wrists to the arms of the chair with one hand. Once he’s not going anywhere, she puts the gun down on the table and crouches to loop his ankles back against the legs of the chair. “She just left. When will you be here?”

She stands to survey her handiwork, picking up the gun again. “See you then.”

“Who’s coming?” He asks, cringing when she tucks the silencer up against his jaw.

“Stop talking,” she says, and Stiles, well – Stiles supposes he should have seen this coming.

“What’s going to happen?” He asks, unable to stop the question from tumbling out. In response, Malia clicks the safety off.

Stiles can feel his pulse beating against the cool metal of the silencer.

In the next second, three things happen in very fast succession. The door to his balcony inches open, there’s a compressed hissing noise followed by a slight _pop_ , and then Malia hits the ground, clutching at her suddenly bloody ankle and swearing into the floorboards.

The door slides open the rest of the way and Isaac steps through, his own silenced gun still cocked. He walks the five or so steps to Malia, flips the gun in his hand, and slams the butt of it against her temple.

“Isaac?” Stiles wheezes, his sympathetic nervous system still debating flight-or-fight from a moment ago. “What – what are you doing here? How’d you know?”

Isaac nudges Malia’s limp form with the toe of his boot. “I bugged your apartment.”

“ _What_?”

“Lecture me about invasions of privacy and respecting social cues later,” Isaac says, untucking a pair of mini bolt cutters from his belt and snapping Stiles free. “We need to get out of here before whomever she called shows up.”

Stiles doesn’t see this side of Isaac often, when his reticence breaks and he seems to flip into clearer focus.  Ever since Isaac’s time in the Pit – and fuck, Stiles still needs to talk to Isaac about that and start a lifetime of apologies if the help Isaac gave Stiles on Election Day is really the reason Isaac spent six months basically buried alive – this 3-D, HD Isaac is constantly suppressed by muted, fuzzy Isaac. Real Isaac only comes out when one of his family-of-choice is under extreme duress.

Yeah, this probably counts.

“You’re the third wire, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, pulling Post-its off the table as quickly and neatly as he can and stowing them in his bag.

Isaac hefts Malia over one shoulder with no discernable effort. “What?”

“The three wires behind my TV,” Stiles says, giving up on _neat_ and going for _quantity_. Lydia has a picture of the most recent Post-it configuration on her phone, anyway. “A while back, Malia said that two of the wires behind my TV were hers. The other one is yours.”

“Yes,” Isaac says. He adjusts Malia’s legs.

Stiles watches him. “You’ve had all of our apartments under surveillance since the beginning, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Isaac tucks his own gun and the bolt cutters back into his belt, then offers Malia’s weapon to Stiles butt-first. “I know you know how to use it.”

“Knowing how to fire a gun and enjoying it are different things,” Stiles scowls, wrapping his fingers around the grip, pleased when his hand doesn’t shake. He flips the safety back on, ejects the magazine, checks the bullet count, and reloads. The gun feels foreign in his hands – his own Ruger SR9, safely locked away in the back of his closet, is heavier than this, and the weight of the silencer pulls the balance forward in a way he doesn’t like. “What is this, a Kel Tec?”

Isaac gives him an appraising look and possibly the longest moment of steady eye contact they’ve ever maintained. “Yes. A PF-9.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Stiles says, slinging his bag over his chest and checking the safety again. “My father was a sheriff.”

**November, Talia Hale’s Campaign (4.42 years ago)**

Stiles paces. It’s been forty-five minutes since he called Isaac, forty-five minutes since he bashed Kali’s head against the wall, and Stiles can tell that if he stops moving for even a _second_ , he’s going to burst out of his skin. God, he can’t even – this is _insane_. This is insane, and criminal, and he just called a guy he _knows for a fact_ has serious mental health issues and _kills people_ to help him “handle the situation,” and now he’s locked himself and Kali’s unconscious body in a storage closet off the back hallway of a hotel. He can still hear the music drifting in from the Hale/McKinney victory party, for Christ’s sake – _that’s_ how close they are.  

He puts his head in his hands and sinks down the wall, bracing his elbows against his knees and forcing himself to breathe evenly. Now is _not_ the time for a panic attack. Right now, he’s doing what he has to protect Derek, Talia, and the republic. Freaking out over the moral implications can come later. Freaking out over _Derek_ is a distant third priority.

His phone beeps. Isaac. _I’m here_.

Stiles lurches out of his cramped position and shifts aside the pile of cleaning supplies he’d set in front of the door, then cracks it open and lets Isaac slide in.

Even in the shaky fluorescent lighting, Stiles can see that Isaac’s changed in the more than a year it’s been since they saw each other last, in that apartment in Chicago. His hair’s grown out, he seems broader through the chest, and he looks from Stiles to Kali’s body with eyes that only _barely_ stray toward lunacy. It almost makes Stiles want to call the whole thing off – if Isaac is getting _better_ , becoming saner _,_ more stable, won’t Stiles asking this unbelievably huge favor just be a colossal blow backwards?

Does Stiles have any other options?

“You’re lucky I was in the area,” Isaac says.

“Why _were_ you here?” Stiles asks automatically. “I thought you lived in Chicago.”

“I don’t,” Isaac says simply. “Okay, I’m going to need a bone saw. An axe will work, if you don’t have a bone saw on hand.”

Stiles, for roughly the tenth time in the last hour, gets hit with a wave of nausea and closes his eyes against the rushing in his stomach. “We’re not killing her, Isaac.”

Isaac blinks at him. “Then why did you call me?”

Stiles links his fingers together behind his head and tries to put the maximum amount of distance possible between his elbows, a trick to make his lungs think they have enough room to expand and contract regularly. “She has a video on a private website that can’t get out to the public, and I thought you could – I mean, I saw what you did with the evidence against those guys back in Chicago. You must know how to hack. Can you get into her website and destroy the video?”

“Yes,” Isaac says bluntly. “But then what?”

“What?”

“We get the video taken down, and then what?” Isaac says. “She’ll still talk. Whatever she has on you must be pretty serious for you to call me, and a rumor that big will carry weight even without evidence to back it up.”

Fuck. He’s right.

“Okay,” Stiles says, resuming pacing. “Okay, okay, okay. Think, Stilinski.”

“Should I be worried about you talking to yourself?” Isaac asks, crouching down next to Kali and using two fingers to check her pulse. “Whatever you want to do, we need to do it fast – she’s got to be waking up soon. You can’t possibly have hit her that hard, you’ve got the muscle definition of that guy from _Blue’s Clues_.”

"I’m a runner, not a fighter,” Stiles says, and somehow it’s the astonishing weirdness of the fact that _Isaac_ knows about _Blue’s Clues_ that cartwheels his brain out of near panic and into crisis management. “Okay. Do you have an apartment nearby, like you did in Chicago? Or a creepy basement where you’ve been tying up the bad guys of DC?”

 

Isaac, it turns out, would win a blue ribbon in safe and courteous driving. He uses his turn signal, he lets people merge ahead of him, he goes exactly the speed limit, he coasts to stops with his front bumper just nudging the plane of the crosswalk.

If they didn’t have an unconscious reporter bound and gagged in the trunk, and if Isaac wasn’t the single most terrifying person Stiles has ever met, Stiles would probably say it’s the safest he’s ever felt in a car.

 

Isaac’s current base of operations is an unfurnished loft-style apartment located above an abandoned brewery on the Maryland side of the District.

“Very home-y,” Stiles says, following Isaac through the empty living room into an empty bedroom. “Really like what you’ve done with the place. You’ve got a career in interior design if this whole killing-people-for-fun-and-profit thing doesn’t work out. Have you thought about getting some recessed lighting? I don’t actually know what recessed lighting is, but it sounds like it’d be a good fit for you.”

Isaac tosses Kali onto the bare mattress and turns to stare at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Who, me? Nothing. Just, you know talking. A lot. Freaking out a little. Trying to distract myself. It’s all good.”

“It’s irritating.”

“Noted,” Stiles says, clapping his hands together. “Okay, so, website and video first. And then can we, I don’t know, ship her to Bora Bora or somewhere? Somewhere without internet, preferably. And put her on a no-fly list so she can never come back? Are those things we can do?”

Isaac tilts his head, and it reminds Stiles just how young Isaac is. Or how young he looks, anyway – they haven’t exactly traded birthday plans yet. “That’s a lot of trouble to go to just to avoid killing her. It’d be quick. Easy. I’m very good.”

“I’m sure you are!” Stiles says, his voice reaching octaves he hadn’t thought he could hit. “No doubt about it. But yeah, no, we’re not killing her.”

“I can take care of it,” Isaac says. “You wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty.”

There’s a…moment. A moment passes between them, and Stiles realizes that, intentional or not, this is a sort of test. They’re both here, in this room, because over a year ago Stiles offered to help Isaac escape his imaginary demons and start a different life. And Isaac is right, on a purely logical level, it would be an easier and more permanent solution to just kill Kali. But if Stiles goes along with that, if Stiles asks that of Isaac, he becomes just another one of Isaac’s bad guys. He becomes no better than the fictional people that Isaac’s trying to run from.

“We not killing her,” Stiles says again, and this time his words come out clear and steady. “Isaac, I’m never going to ask you to kill someone. I promise.”

“But I’m very good at it,” Isaac says.

“I know. But I don’t need you to be good at that. You’re good at other things – hacking, surveillance. You said – ah – extracting information. That’s all I need.”

Isaac looks at him, caution and optimism shining through. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Isaac shifts his gaze from a just-now stirring Kali to the window, to the floor, back to Stiles. “Bora Bora and no-fly lists? You really have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, do you?”

“None at all,” Stiles says, pulling his laptop out of his bag and waking it up. “But I’m a fast learner. Teach me.”

 

***

 

“So you’ll come to California,” Stiles says when it’s over, as Isaac drives back toward the hotel. “I’ve got a guy who makes the best documents on the west coast: passport, driver’s license, Social Security card, immunization records, transcripts, all of it. That’s just to start, obviously – now that we’ve got your hacker knowledge, we can actually plug you in to all the databases. What do you want your new name to be? Aim for that fine line between just generic enough that it’s not unique, but not so generic that it’s obviously fake. John Smith is a terrible alias, for instance, but so is Larabie McGillicuddy.”

“I’m not ready,” Isaac interrupts.

“What?” Stiles looks at him from the passenger seat, not sure he heard correctly.

“I’m not ready,” Isaac repeats. “I’m involved in something that’s a little more long-term than typical assignments at the moment. So I’m not ready yet.”

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. “When do you think you’ll be ready?”

Isaac brings the car to a gentle stop in front of the hotel. “I’m not sure. A couple months. Maybe another year. Could be longer.”

Stiles picks at a spot of blood on his shirt. He’s starting to feel…numb. Like he’s watching himself live through this hellish day that just refuses to end. And he really needs to brush his teeth. “Do you want to tell me why?”

Isaac keeps looking out the windshield. It’s still early, nearly five in the morning, so the traffic is pretty much non-existent. “I have a brother.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. Of all the things he expected Isaac to say, that wasn’t even in the top five hundred.

“His name is Camden.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what to say. He has no idea where this is going.

“He thinks I’m dead,” Isaac says after a minute. “He joined the army when I was twelve. To get away from our dad. When I joined B6-13 two years later, they made it look like I’d died – easiest way to explain my disappearance.”

Stiles stays quiet. This is the only time he’s heard Isaac talk about his past without a deranged undercurrent in his voice.

“He’s back now,” Isaac continues. “Between tours of active duty. He has a wife. They have a son and a daughter. But Command is…interested. In him. Because I…turned out so well. And I can’t… _he_ can’t…I have to keep him safe.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. _I don’t know what you think your imagined organization can do to your brother, if he even exists. But okay._ “Okay. So…you’ll call me? When you’re ready?”

Isaac nods.

“You’ll text me when you get confirmation that she’s there?”

Another nod.

Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt. “Okay. I’m going to head upstairs, then. And Isaac, thank you. I think we did a good thing tonight. I mean, a terrible, illegal, morally reprehensible thing but…I think it was good. Right. Necessary.”

“Can you teach me that?” Isaac says, when Stiles reaches for the door handle.

“Sorry?”

“What’s good, right, necessary,” Isaac says. “Earlier, you said I could teach you what I know. So maybe you could teach me what you know. What’s good, right, necessary. I think I used to know, but I…forgot.”

Stiles blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, we can work on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ARE OFFICIALLY IN HIGH-SUSPENSE MODE THROUGH THE END OF THE WEEK. Chapter 9 comes out on Wednesday, Chapter 10 on Friday. I swear I'm doing my best to keep up with comments, and I love love LOVE you guys for having so much to say, but holy _crap_ you've got a lot to say and it takes me a long, long time to respond to everyone in kind. Keep writing, I'll keep getting back to you as soon as I can!
> 
> Also, on the off-chance that I've been flagged on some sort of watch list and am now being monitored by the FBI/NSA/Homeland Security because all my recent Google searches are about locations of Air Force bases, roles on a political campaign, geography of the Middle East, weaponization of neurotoxins, and weights of various handguns, I solemnly swear that I'm just an innocent fanfiction writer. I'm the least threatening person to ever make up a fake threat against the fictionalized republic. I do most of these searches while sitting in bed wearing a retainer and mismatched socks.
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Words I Never Said by Lupe Fiasco.


	9. they used to shout my name, now they whisper it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the third-ever emergency middle-of-the-night meeting of Stilinski & Associates, and Stiles doesn’t know what to think about the fact that this time, they all show up fully dressed.
> 
> It’s been a hard year. For everyone.

**April, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

 

It’s the third-ever emergency middle-of-the-night meeting of Stilinski & Associates, and Stiles doesn’t know what to think about the fact that this time, they all show up fully dressed.

It’s been a hard year. For everyone.

Scott’s the last to make it in, still holding his tie in his hand as he jogs into the conference room. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I slept through the first call, Allison had to wake me up on the second – what the _hell_ is going on?” He grinds to a halt when he takes in the room, with Stiles, Isaac, Lydia, and Kira seated at the table and Malia strapped to a chair under the main monitor, blood crusting into her hairline from where Isaac knocked her out.

“My mom was in my apartment,” Stiles says, repeating the lines he’d given the others when they arrived. “Told me we need to back off McKinney, then had Malia here hold a gun to my head. Malia was just about to tell us who she called to come get me before Isaac saved my ass, wasn’t she?”

Malia glares, but doesn’t speak.

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing he’d thought to change into his glasses before leaving his apartment. Maybe his spares are still in his desk drawer. He also wishes he’d brought Starbuck – they’d left her to sleep off the rest of whatever tranquilizer Malia had hit her with, but Stiles misses her furry warmth pressed against his leg and the rough swipe of her tongue against the back of his hand. “You know where this is headed, right?” He says. “You know exactly what Isaac’s been trained to do. You know that he knows how to keep you alive and conscious until you tell me what I want to know. Why not save yourself a whole lot of pain and just start talking?”

Malia stays silent.

“Isaac,” Stiles sighs, gesturing forward.

Isaac stands. “Teeth first?”

Stiles clamps down on his rising nausea, praying to any on-duty god that Malia cracks so they don’t have to go through with this. “Teeth first.”

“You can cut the melodrama,” Malia says when Isaac takes half a step in her direction. “I’m not a martyr.”

“You’ve been lying about whose side you’re on since the day we met you,” Lydia says. “Why should we trust anything you say freely now?”

It should be impossible to look as comfortable as Malia looks when tied to a chair, but she just shakes a piece of hair out of her face. “I was ordered to kill Isaac,” she says. “And I haven’t done that. I actually talked Command _out_ of wanting him dead. And it’s cute that you think there are clear _sides_ in this, Martin. Pull your head out of your ass.”

“Listen, sweetheart,” Lydia begins in a scathing tone, but Malia cuts her off.

“By my count, you have exactly forty-six minutes before B6-13 realizes that I’m not where I’m supposed to be and all of Wonderland comes out in force,” she says, checking the clock on the wall. “You still remember containment protocols, head case?” She adds, directing the question at Isaac.

Isaac bristles the tiniest bit, but his eyes flash to the clock and then to Stiles. “I’ll need half an hour to get her out of here. Talk fast.”

Stiles twists a few inches back and forth in his chair, thinking. If this were a client interview, he’d have a list of questions two pages long all queued up. Whenever he’s thought through conversations with his mother over the past months, he’s had perfectly phrased, illumination-maximizing questions ready to go. Now, though, his brain is stuck on a one-track repeat.

“Who tried to kill the president?”

Malia reverts back to her confident face. “Command gives the orders.”

“Obviously,” Stiles says. “But who carried them out? Which agent?”

Malia smirks. “Which time?”

“Either. Both.”

“The toxin’s all Violet’s doing,” Malia says. “Girl’s got a gift for slight-of-hand.”

Stiles nods, a tight little movement that does nothing to alleviate the pressure in his jaw. They know about Violet. “And the shooting?”

The air in the room is heavy as they wait for Malia to respond. Stiles can hear Kira chewing on her nails.

“I thought you’d have figured it out by now,” Malia says, tilting her head to the side. “Your mother’s always going on and on about how smart you are. But you really don’t know, do you?”

“Was it my mother?” Stiles asks sharply.

Malia lets out a little burst of laughter. “Command, behind a sniper rifle?”

“ _Malia_ ,” Stiles says, her name grating against his throat like sandpaper. “Who was the shooter?”

She straightens her back, and Stiles thinks it might be the first time he’s seen her out of her carefully maintained casual slouch. “I was,” she says clearly. Proudly. “The first assassination attempt was _my_ assignment.”

Lydia lets out a little gasp and Scott swears under his breath, but Stiles barely hears them. All he can think to say is, “You shot me. You actually aimed a sniper rifle at me and pulled the trigger.” A phantom pain races through his chest.

“It wasn’t personal,” Malia says, sounding like she’s discussing a fucking scone recipe or something equally mundane. “Just orders. I didn’t know you then.”

“Just orders,” Stiles parrots automatically. He’s missing something, some crucial piece of this, and his brain isn’t making a connection he desperately needs.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lydia says slowly, looking over at Stiles like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to speak before continuing. “Why would you have been ordered to kill _Stiles_? Killing the president, yes, on a purely objective level, I understand the logic behind that order. But why would Stiles’ mother put a hit out on _Stiles_?”

“And how does it feel to fail an assignment?” Scott adds. “I thought B6-13 doesn’t tolerate failure.”

“They don’t,” Isaac says, and there’s a warning in his tone.

“I didn’t fail,” Malia says.

“You missed,” Scott says.

“I didn’t _miss_ ,” Malia snaps. “B6-13 agents don’t _miss_. The order was to hurt Stiles, not to kill him, and it didn’t come from his mother. Neither of the assassination attempt orders came from his mother.”

“They _didn’t come from_ –!” Stiles explodes, then ratchets himself down a few notches. “My mom’s Command. Who else gives you orders?”

“Again, I’m disappointed that you haven’t put this together,” Malia says. “B6-13 hasn’t been a single-Command structure for almost five years.”

“There’s _another one_?” Scott asks, incredulity pitching his voice an octave above normal. “There’s another Command?”

Malia doesn’t answer right away, and Stiles’ mind spins through the silence. Another Command. Is it…is it too much to hope? To hope that maybe, _maybe_ , his mother wasn’t responsible for _all_ of the horrifying acts he knows B6-13 is behind? Little light bulbs flicker to life in his head as he realizes that in the two brief conversations he’s had with her, his mother has never once claimed to want the president dead herself, and she always says “B6-13” or “we” or “Command” instead of “I” – is it too much to hope?

Yes, she said she was responsible for fourteen deaths in the last year. But still…maybe?

_"Tread carefully, Stiles,” she says, sitting in the park with snow swirling around her. “You’re very new to this territory you’re stepping into, and I’d hate for you to get hurt.”_

“Who is it?” He asks quietly. “Who else is Command?”

Malia leans forward as much as her constraints will allow and whispers, “You’re not the only one with a powerful parent.”

As if on cue, the door to the conference bangs open and Peter Hale strides in, backed by a pair of men who have to be identical twins – _Ethan and Aiden_ , Stiles’ brain supplies – and an older man in sunglasses. Before any of them can react and without saying a word, Peter pulls a gun and shoots Scott in the stomach.

He shoots. Scott. In the stomach.

Stiles’ brain shuts down and flicks back to high speed several times in a row, catching bits of Lydia and Kira’s screams and Scott’s howl of pain as he falls to the floor. Stiles jerks up out of his chair, trying to get to Scott, but one of the twins hammers a hand onto his shoulder and forces him back down. In the corner of his eye, he sees Isaac backing away from the older man – _Deucalion?_ – a look of sheer terror on his face.

“No one moves,” Peter says, his voice oily and calm and Stiles thinks he might finally understand the true meaning of the word _loathe_. “Or the next one goes in Mr. McCall’s brain. Ethan, get my daughter out of that chair.”

Malia rubs at her wrists when the other twin cuts her bonds and briefly sets her hands on the arms of Stiles’ chair, grinning wickedly into his space. “I might have been lying about the forty-six minutes.” She pats him on the cheek and pulls away, snatching her gun off the table.

“You,” Stiles says to Peter, his voice sounding distant in his own ears. “How is it you?”

“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss that later,” Peter says. “Mr. McCall has approximately ten minutes before he bleeds out, so you’re all going to be good little boys and girls and listen carefully. Stiles’ moronic doctor friend is going to have my sister awake in a matter of hours, so the whole Crescent situation is a wash after _years_ of planning, thanks to your mother’s incompetence. As a result, Stilinski  & Associates, I present your most challenging client yet: me. I know you’d usually tape a picture of me on the window, but as I’m here in person, we’ll forgo that step.”

Scott moans. The floor beneath him is staining red.

“What’s next, what’s next,” Peter murmurs, stepping over Scott and picking up a tissue to wipe the spray of blood off his hands. “Ah, yes, endgame. That’s what you usually ask for, correct? My endgame is to ensure that Claire Collins, alias Claudia Stilinski, is charged with both attempts on the president’s life and that no connection to myself, B6-13, or any of its agents is ever uncovered. Give me an acceptable plan, and I’ll ensure that Mr. McCall receives the medical attention he rather desperately needs and you’ll all go about your lives as usual.”

Peter turns on his heel, smiling something small and evil at the corner of the room where Deucalion has Isaac pressed against a wall. “Fail to come up with a theory I approve of, and Mr. McCall dies. Continue to fail, and Ms. Yukimura follows – and so on, and so forth.”

He swings the gun around so it points at Stiles’ chest. “Do we have an agreement?”

Stiles imagines a physical switch in his mind, revving him up to overdrive. This is just another client, he tells himself. Just another problem to solve. No one’s dying. Scott’s fine. Peter is Malia’s _fa_ – no, deal with that later. Get the facts, find the solution. This is what he’s good at. This is what he  _does_. 

Kira’s clearly too upset to contribute, and Deucalion’s managed to knock Isaac back into some sort of spiral of regression that has him curled in a ball, rocking back and forth, but all Stiles needs right now is Lydia’s brain. She’s the sounding board, the critical thinker, the one most adept at poking holes in their plans and finding ways to bridge the gaps.

“Okay, Lyds,” he says, turning to her. “Blaming my mom for everything. What does that look like?”

Lydia is pale and shaking, tears dripping from wide eyes. “Stiles –.”

“Focus, Lydia,” he says sternly, taking her face in both hands and forcing her to look only at him. “This is what we do. We make problems go away. Focus on me, and tell me what blaming my mom for everything looks like.”

Lydia takes a shuddering breath and closes her eyes. “Uh… _God_ , uh…motive.” She blows the breath out, opening her eyes again. “She’d need a motive. It has to go back ten years, to explain her faking her death.”

Lydia Martin, even terrified and worried and with a gun aimed at her head, is magnificent.

“We keep it simple,” Stiles says. “Something fundamental. Right-wing extremists who don’t want a woman in office?”

“Ultra-conservative Christians,” Lydia nods. “It’s blasphemy to put a female in charge of the country, women should be subservient, all of that.”

“A cult,” Stiles says, rolling the idea around in his mind. “They saw Talia starting to rise and needed someone in position to take her out.”

“Claudia faked her death because no one looks at a dead woman as a suspect.”

“What about Kate?”

Lydia looks over at Scott and stumbles. “Uh, I don’t –.”

“Stay with me, Lyds,” Stiles says, gripping her hand firmly. “What about Kate?”

Lydia runs her other hand through her hair, a familiar motion that Stiles loves her for. It’s calm. Simple. Normal. Distracting, directing Stiles' attention away from the pounding of his heart and and the numb throbbing in his ears. “Easy scapegoat. The prevailing theory is still that Kate did it because Talia got the gun control bill passed, and that hurt Argent Arms’ business. It’ll hold. Why wouldn’t the cult want to take credit for it?”

Stiles risks a glance at Scott. He’s a shade of pale that shouldn’t even be possible with his skin tone, and he’s too still. “Uh...”

“Because she failed,” Kira says, her voice tiny and almost lost in the room. She’s still staring at Scott, almost as pale as he is. “You don’t take credit for a failed assassination attempt. Not if you’re going to try again. Not if you don't want the entire world looking for you.”

“It works,” Stiles says fiercely, turning to Peter. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll work. Get us access to the sniper rifle, show me the plans for how Violet poisoned the president, and you’ll need to create a traceable paper trail for the cult, but it’ll work.”

Peter stares back at him, for a second cold and blocked off, but then he breaks into a grin with that same twinkle in his eye that he used on the campaign trail to hit on anything that moved. “Very good, Stiles,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

Peter nods once at one of the twins, who lifts Scott easily in his arms. Scott lets out a gut-wrenching little moan.

“We’ll be going, then,” Peter says smoothly. “As for the future, you should all consider yourself on the B6-13 payroll. You’ll do what I ask, when I ask, or we’ll have a repeat performance of tonight’s festivities. Stiles, I’ll meet you at James Madison in two hours’ time. Ms. Yukimura, you may accompany Mr. McCall.”

Peter, Malia, the twins, and Deucalion sweep out of the room. They take Scott, and Kira, after a panicked look at Stiles, runs after them.

The front door to the S&A office swings closed, and when the latch bolt clicks into place, Lydia squeezes Stiles’ hand.

“Okay,” she says. “What do you need us to do?”

**May, Year Two of Talia Hale’s First Term (2.8 years ago)**

“You really didn’t have to come up for this,” Derek says, pulling sandwich materials out of the fridge. “I know you’ve got a ton of things to do.”

“It’s your graduation, Derek,” his dad says, clapping him on both shoulders. “Your mom and Laura couldn’t get away from the White House and Cora’s got finals, but _someone’s_ got to be there to yell embarrassingly loudly when you walk across the stage.”

“If _you_ yell loudly, the Secret Service is going to think someone’s attacking and shut down the whole thing.”

“No, I’ve been working with Harry and Morrison,” David says. “We’ve got a whole choreographed dance number. At the end, we all rip off our shirts and spell your name with letters painted on our chests. I’m the R.”

Derek knocks his head purposefully against a cabinet as he slices tomatoes. “I know I’ve said this before, but our family is extremely abnormal. I don’t know how none of this got caught on camera during Mom’s campaign.”

“We’re as subtle as we are witty. It’s a gift. No onions on mine, please.”

“Oh, really? Because here I was, thinking you’d suddenly changed after the twenty-seven years I’ve known you and become someone who likes onions.”

“No one likes a smartass,” his dad cracks, then wanders away into the other part of the kitchen. “What’s this?”

Derek looks up, and his dad is holding a bright blue envelope with _RETURN TO SENDER_ stamped across the front. “Oh, I, uh – I sent a card. To Stiles. When he graduated last year,” Derek says.

"Did you have the wrong address?” David sits down at the table, flipping the envelope between his fingers. “Not enough postage?”

“No, he just…sent it back to me.”

“Unopened.”

“…yeah.”

His dad looks at him with sadness or pity or some other emotion Derek doesn’t want to deal with right now. “I’m sorry, son.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, finishing sandwich assembly and heading out to the table. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Hale,” Greg, Derek’s roommate, says, walking out of his bedroom and snagging a chip off Derek’s plate. “He’s been moping ever since it showed up in our mailbox three days ago.”

“Thanks, Greg,” Derek says drily. “Appreciate the support.”

“I live to serve your Haleness!” Greg says. “Anyway, I’m meeting Becca for lunch. Mr. Hale, it was nice to meet you in person. See you at the ceremony!”

“Bye, Greg,” Derek and his dad chorus, and Derek pointedly tries to ignore his dad for a long minute while they both take a few bites.

“I have not been _moping_ ,” he finally says, and David snorts. “I haven’t! I just thought he would have cooled down by now. But I guess he really doesn’t care anymore. That’s what he shouted at me in the gym a few months back, I just…didn’t want to believe it.”

“If he’s still shouting, then he still cares,” his dad says. “And if he’s holding on to a card you sent him for a _year_ just so he can send it back to you, he definitely still cares. He’s hurt and this seems petulant for Stiles, but he still cares.”

“Maybe,” Derek hedges. “Hey, did changing your last name bother you?”

His dad looks at him quizzically. “That came out of left field.”

“I’ve just been wondering, We’ve never really talked about it.”

His dad leans back in his chair. “A last name is a cosmetic thing, Derek. It’s symbolic, but that’s it. I could have stayed David Trujillo forever and it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“It matters to the company. That Hale Enterprises is run by a Hale.”

David waves a hand. “It’s still all cosmetic. Hale was a brand long before I married your mother; people know I’m a Hale by marriage, not by blood. I don’t think the Board of Directors would vote me out if I decided to start going by Trujillo again. What’s this really about?”

Derek starts peeling the crust off his sandwich and squishing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Sometimes it seems like you changed a lot to be with Mom, to make things work out for her. For all of us. For our family. How did you know it was going to be worth it? How’d you know she was, you know, _the one_?”

“Is this about Stiles?” His dad asks, squinting at him.

“No,” says Derek, and it’s a 90% honest answer. “It’s more than that. I’m 27, Dad, and I’ve never been in a real relationship, unless we’re counting Paige. I’m starting to wonder if I’m just…wired wrong.”

His dad frowns a little, just a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “There are some people who genuinely don’t want or feel the need for long-term romantic relationships. Or any romantic relationships, for that matter. It doesn’t mean that they’re wired wrong, just that that’s not what they’re looking for.”

“I think I do want that, though,” Derek says. “I want what you and Mom have, what Sean and Cora have, what Ev and Ryan have. But I’m always so…disconnected. It’s like I’ve got incompatible software.” 

David picks a stray piece of onion out of his sandwich and offers it to Derek. “Look at the relationships you’ve got with your sisters. And Daniel, and Paige, and your mother and I. You connect to people just fine, Derek, but it’s only…” He trails off, and looks at Derek with trepidation. “I’m going to say something you’re probably not going to like.”

Derek’s laugh comes out a little strangled. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” his dad says, brightening. “Well, you – you connect really well with people that you’re honest with. About your orientation.”

Derek’s entire brain buzzes. It’s so simple. How has he never thought of that? He’s _Harvard-educated_ , for crying out loud.

“You’re still keeping that part of yourself to yourself, and that’s fine,” David says, bending to pick up a chip that had landed on the floor. “That’s your business and your choice. But I think that until you – for lack of a better word – fully _embrace_ who you are, you’re going to struggle with relationships.”

Derek lets it sink in that even though he is _twenty-seven years old_ , sometimes he still just needs his dad to set him straight.

In the quiet that follows as they both finish their lunch, it occurs to Derek that Stiles doesn’t have this as an option anymore, and how incredibly, incredibly lonely that must be.

 

***

 

Three days later, Derek is sitting on a bench across from one of the older brick buildings on the southwest side of the District while Luke and Chen make slow circles of the neighboring blocks. He’s been sitting for almost two hours, a book in his lap and a baseball cap on his head, watching shadowy figures move around in the frosted second-story windows.

 _Stilinski & Associates_, _Suite 2A_ reads the directory inside.

He could go inside. It’s the easiest thing in the world, to open a door, climb a flight of stairs, and press a buzzer. He could explain why he’s here – but why _is_ he here? To reconcile? To apologize? To demand to know why Stiles sent the graduation card back, without reading it, after holding on to it for a year?

“You should leave,” says a voice to his left, and Derek, startled, jumps a few inches off the bench. There’s a woman with long, reddish-brown hair and sunglasses sitting on the other end of the bench, calmly looking out into the street.

"Excuse me?” Derek manages.

“You should leave,” she repeats. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“ _Excuse_ _me_?”

“Stiles Stilinski, of Stilinski & Associates,” she says. “That’s who you’re stalking, correct, Mr. Hale?”

“I’m not _stalking_ – who are you?”

“He’s doing better without you,” she says, completely ignoring his question. “He’s dating a man who treats him the way he deserves to be treated. He’s gathered his friends together to create this firm. He’s taken up boxing. He’s doing better without you.”

Stiles is dating?

Should Derek care that Stiles is dating? Probably not. But it feels like there are cold fingers groping along his intestines, so it seems that he does.

She stands. “Leave him alone, Mr. Hale. Your internalized homophobia is a cross that Stiles does not need to bear, and your emotional immaturity is a detriment to everyone you come into contact with. You are manipulative and weak, and Stiles is better than that. Stiles is better than _you_.”

She walks away, leaving Derek whirling on the bench, replaying her words over and over and over. It’s every thing that he hates about himself, rolled up into a nice, neat package and delivered by a complete stranger on a Monday afternoon.

A few seconds later, Chen jogs up, looking after her. “Who was that?”

A figure moves in one of the Stilinski & Associates windows.

“Just some woman,” Derek says. “Asked for the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRAMA! SUSPENSE! REVELATIONS! This was one of those chapters that just made me squeal a lot when I was writing it. 
> 
> Only one more chapter in this arc, my loves, and please heed my words when I say to pack tissues. Friday is going to be _extremely_ angsty. EXTREMELY. And then you'll have to bear with me for a week while I work out part three. 
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Yellow Flicker Beat by Lorde.


	10. i was a man of great sympathy/i loved you, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voice off camera asks, “Stilinski? Is there any relation?”
> 
> There’s a slight glare off Stiles’ glasses that makes it difficult to see his eyes when he says, “That’s not relevant, but yes. Claudia Stilinski is my mother.”
> 
> “Follow-up,” says the voice. “Are you involved in her plan to assassinate the president?”
> 
> Derek is going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WARNED ABOUT ANGST. I WAS NOT KIDDING.
> 
> Two time jumps in this chapter, my darlings - present/past/present. Heed the headers!

**April, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

Derek’s phone rings before his alarm sounds on Thursday morning, and he stubs his toe twice as he stumbles to get to it before it goes to voicemail. He doesn’t make it and hops around on one foot as he calls Laura back, wondering why he even bothers to leave his phone across the room anymore. The Air Force solidly drilled into him that when the alarm goes off, you _get up_ , overriding undergrad Derek’s snooze-heavy sleeping patterns. Habit, he guesses.

“Derek? Derek, she’s awake,” Laura says, the sound of hospital bustle tinny in the background.

“What?” Derek mumbles, turning his chin away to yawn. “Who? What time is it?”

“Derek, _wake up_. Mom’s awake, she’s fine, Allen was here with the antitoxin twenty minutes ago and now she’s up and talking.”

Derek shoots upright, already feeling around for the pants he discarded last night and hoping Luke and Chen are awake. “I can be there in fifteen minutes. How is she? You said she’s talking? Does she remember anything about how it happened? Is –?”

“ _Derek_ ,” Laura says, “Calm down. Take your time. You can’t see her right now anyway.” The line garbles for a moment as the hospital’s P.A. system announces something. “The Secret Service brought Stiles, Deaton, Peter, and McKinney in as soon as she was coherent. I think it’s about the Crescent thing. Deaton said it’d be a while before she was available for family stuff.”

“Laura, with all due respect to you as my big sister and the Deputy White House Chief of Staff, screw that,” Derek says. He stubs his toe again as he tries to get his pants on without dropping the phone. “Have you called Cora yet? I’ll pick her up on my way in.”

           

 

***

 

Stiles, Deaton, Peter, and the Vice President are in Talia’s hospital room behind a wall of Secret Service agents until almost 9AM. Deaton’s the first to emerge, holding an envelope bearing the presidential seal close to his chest, and two of the agents whisk him away in a hurry.

“That’s got to be her letter to the President pro tempore and the House Speaker requesting to be reinstated,” Laura whispers, nudging Derek and Cora out of their lulls. “She must’ve been cleared by all the doctors.”

Vice President McKinney is the next out, smiling so widely that he’s probably creating instantaneous new wrinkles. The happiness that’s been building behind Derek’s ribs since Laura’s call burgeons even further.

Their dad darts past Stiles and Peter as soon as they’re clear of the sliding door, and if Derek hadn’t spent the last year carefully learning how to read every one of Stiles’ facial expressions, he probably wouldn’t notice anything off. But ever since he started trying in good faith to earn Stiles’ trust, he’s been able to pick up on the way Stiles sets his jaw when he’s upset but trying not to show it – and that’s what’s happening now.

He manages to catch Stiles’ eye for a second as Cora tugs him by the hand, trying to silently ask what’s wrong, but Stiles just mouths, “I’m happy for you,” with a look in his eye that countermands the phrase entirely. But then Derek’s through the door and his mom, thank God, thank every god, thank Dr. Markings, is sitting up and holding a cup of water and smiling at him, and Derek’s heart is lighter than it’s been in nine days.

"I’m pregnant,” Cora bursts.

“You’re only allowed to almost die once a term,” Laura adds. “We had a family meeting about it.”

“I missed you,” Derek says.

“Welcome back,” says David, kissing Talia on the side of the head.

 

***

 

Friday is Derek’s last day at the HaleEnt DC office before flying down to New Orleans to spend the week celebrating the London branch opening and having a bunch of face-to-face meetings with VPs, C-suite executives, and other branch directors. He’s off to a late start since his first call isn’t until 10, so he’s taking his time getting dressed and, on whim, flicks his TV on to the closed-circuit channel Luke had set up for him that streams directly from the White House Press Room. The good news about his mom has been everywhere for twenty-four hours, but he never gets tired of hearing it – and hearing _Stiles_ tell it is an added bonus.

He’s just in time for the 8AM briefing. Even before Stiles starts speaking, Derek knows this isn’t going to be about his mom: Stiles is wearing his glasses.

“At 8:07AM Arabia Standard Time, 12:07AM Eastern Standard Time, US troops entered the Persian Gulf and landed at various points along the Khawr al Qulay’ah. By 9:15AM AST, they had secured the Bahrainian capital, Al Manamah, as well as Sitra, Bani Jamra, Galali, Hamala, Al Jasra, and Muharraq,” Stiles says, pronouncing the Arabic names flawlessly. “Maddie’s passing around a sheet with spellings. At 9:42AM AST, they breached the armory in Riffa and have established control of the weapons of mass destruction held there. After hearing reports from the commanders of all units, President Hale and Secretary of Defense Geraldo declared Bahrain officially under US control as of 11:09AM AST – that’s 4:09AM Eastern.”

Stiles coughs into his sleeve and takes a sip of water, waving off the questions that bubble up.

“Early intelligence indicates that both the Eastern Coalition and the Crescent Alliance are standing down. General Ian Montgomery, the ranking officer onsite, is working to set up discussions with leaders from either side about reestablishing the demilitarized zone along the Israel-Jordan-Iraq border. At this time, we do not have a proposed timeline for recalling our troops, but both Bahrain’s king and prime minister – names are on the sheets – have expressed gratitude for bringing peace back to their country and are cooperating with our plans to dismantle the warheads and ship them to an undisclosed US military facility. No immediate questions on this, folks; let me get through the other big headline of the day and we’ll circle back.”

Stiles pauses longer than he typically does, staring down at his notes. His fingers, wrapped around the edge of the podium, are bloodlessly white.

“A year and three months ago, the attempted assassination of President Hale rocked the nation. Evidence implicating one Katherine Argent, then the fiancé of Derek Hale, was discovered, but Argent fled custody and has been missing ever since. New evidence has come to light over the past several days clearing Argent’s name, and the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, Arabella Poitier, extends Argent an invitation home with full exoneration. No questions just yet, please – there’s more.

"We initially reported that President Hale’s recent incapacitation, stretching from last Tuesday until yesterday morning, was caused by the accidental ingestion of a previously unknown neurotoxin. We now know that the ingestion was not accidental, but that the president was purposefully poisoned. Evidence and eye witness testimony now implicates a single woman in both assassination attempts: Claudia Stilinski, also known as Claire Collins.”

Derek wonders if this is what people mean when they say that their heart drops into their stomach.   

“It is believed that Stilinski is a member of a fundamentalist group that sees a female president as an affront to Christianity,” Stiles continues. “It is also believed that she faked her death ten years ago in anticipation of President Hale’s election so that she might position herself to carry out an assassination attempt. Stilinski has evaded initial attempts to capture her at her DC home, and a nationwide manhunt commenced in the early hours of the day. Yes, Matt.”

A voice off camera asks, “Stilinski? Is there any relation?”

There’s a slight glare off Stiles’ glasses that makes it difficult to see his eyes when he says, “That’s not relevant, but yes. Claudia Stilinski is my mother.”

“Follow-up,” says the voice. “Are you involved in her plan to assassinate the president?”

Derek is going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

Stiles takes off his glasses. “I’ll say this once, for the record, and then I expect it to be dropped and we’ll move on to more pertinent questions. I am not now, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be involved in an attempt on the president’s life. My mother’s actions disgust me, and I am _ashamed_ to call her family. I assure you in this room and the American people that I will fully cooperate with the investigation headed by Arabella Poitier, and it is my sincerest hope that Claudia Stilinski be persecuted to the fullest extent of the law for her crimes against the republic. Next question.”

           

 

***

 

“Thanks for coming,” Stiles says, taking an aborted step toward him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”    

“I wasn’t sure either,” Derek says, moving away from the elevator and deeper into Fox & Hole. He doesn't really remember most of his day at work, barely remembers responding to Stiles' text, and now it’s late – late enough that they’re the only two people there, save Chen. “I tried to get Chen to stay upstairs, but they barely let me meet you in the first place.”

Stiles nods, the lights casting an unhealthy greenish pallor over his skin.

Derek thinks it’s the lights, anyway.

“I get it,” Stiles says, still nodding. “I wouldn’t have let you come, if I were them. Hi, Chen.”

Chen doesn’t respond. He stays motionless by the elevator, watching.

“Is this what you were keeping from me?” Derek asks after a heavy moment of silence. His voice echoes strangely off the walls. “What you’ve been hiding since last January? Your mom’s involvement?”

“No,” Stiles says, stricken. He takes that half-step again. “No, Derek, God, _no_. I haven’t – I didn’t even know she was _alive_ until October.”

“October,” Derek repeats, turning the word over in his mouth and his mind. “So you’ve known for six months. Did you know this whole time that she was behind the shooting?”

“I – I – yeah,” Stiles says, running a hand over his hair. “It was different at first –.”

“So you knew Kate was innocent, and you knew your mom was guilty, and you didn’t say anything,” Derek says, cutting him off.  “Did you help her get Kate’s fingerprints? What, did you take one of the glasses Kate used in your office and send it to her?”

Stiles looks like he’s been hit in the stomach. “Derek, _no_. I didn’t – I _wouldn’t –_ you _know_ I wouldn’t –.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Derek’s somewhat aware that he’s yelling, that blood is rushing past his eardrums in a deafening roar. “I’m not really sure what you _wouldn’t_ do at this point, Stiles. God, you knew how much it _destroyed_ me that I misjudged Kate so badly, that I _let_ my family be put in harm’s way, but I _didn’t_ , did I?”

 “Derek –.”

“Is this why you joined my mom’s campaign in the first place?” Derek shouts. On some level, he knows that he’s being unfair, he _knows_ that Stiles can’t possibly have had anything to do with the shooting or the toxin, he _knows_ that he’s saying horrible things that he won’t ever, ever be able to take back, but the rest of him is confused and hurt and angry and so fucking _scared_ that somehow, after all these years, he’s managed to not know a single true thing about the man standing in front of him. “To get close to her? To get close to _us_?”

Stiles doesn’t even say anything, he just stands there and _takes_ it. It occurs to Derek that he’s only seen Stiles cry once before – his father’s funeral.

“Maybe you didn’t have an active hand in it,” Derek says, bringing his voice down to the Hale-patented quiet, dangerous rage that Laura uses so effectively. “But you _knew_. Six months and you _knew_ , you _knew_ it wasn’t over and that your mother would try again, and you didn’t do _anything._ ”

“It’s…it’s complicated,” Stiles says, desperation tingeing his voice, the words strangled. “And I know that sounds just _incredibly_ lame and half-assed, but there’s _so much_ going on that you don’t know about.”

“So explain,” Derek says. His voice comes out flat, and he spreads his arms wide. “Here’s your chance. You’ve got me here, I’m listening – what is _so fucking complicated_ about this?”

“I…I can’t,” Stiles says, stuttering another baby step towards him. “Derek, _please_ , I need you to trust me –.”

“ _Trust you_?” Derek thunders. “I don’t _know you_.”

Stiles staggers back, like they’re physically sparring and Derek’s just landed a particularly well-placed roundhouse. Derek’s anger breaks in that moment, and the roaring in his ears decreases to a manageable rumble.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he says. “New Orleans for the week. I’ll be busy.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, his eyes lighting up with something that might be relief or panic. “Okay, that’s good. I’ll see you when you get back?”

“Your mother tried to have my mother killed,” Derek says numbly. “Twice. And you lied about it. I’m not sure I’m going to want to see you.”

“Derek, _please_ ,” Stiles says, his eyes still shining, his hands limp and shaky at his sides. He finally takes a full step forward. “Please don’t do this. I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

Derek takes a calculated step back and actually, for the space of a heartbeat, considers the impact his words are going to have. Then he clears his throat, says, “That’s not enough,” and walks away.

**June, Talia Hale’s Campaign (4.81 years ago)**

Stiles is, like, _vibrating_. It took three months, but he’s _debate prep_. Debate prep for Senator _Talia Hale_. _Presidential candidate_ Talia Hale.

He’s basically thinking in fifty percent italics these days.

He does his level best to quell the vibrations as he makes sure the pretend auditorium in the back of campaign headquarters is set up the way he wants it. It doesn’t help that he’s getting play-by-play updates on the Mets game from his dad, so his phone is buzzing basically constantly, but he tries to check the messages surreptitiously as he nudges the podiums into place, sets out everyone’s notes, and ultimately takes his seat at the moderator’s table when people start trickling in.

Stiles makes it a point to be the single most prepared person on the campaign team, and he uses that to his benefit now. Tonight’s mock debate is between Talia and her brother Peter (who, as much as he irks the shit out of Stiles on a regular basis, does a surprisingly competent approximation of both of Talia’s two main opponents – Nicholas Talbot, the only other realistic Democratic candidate, and Jeffrey Matthews, the Republican’s champion), and they are, without question, two of the smartest people Stiles has ever known. Two hours flit by with Stiles barely noticing, save for calling Talia and Peter out when they exceed the response time limit, and Stiles realizes that he’s actually having _fun_. He’s _good_ at this – his brain has always excelled at cataloging random facts and figures and dredging them up when needed, and the research he does late into the night clicking through spiraling .gov and .net links (born out of years of preparing for “But why?” with his mom) easily translates into counterarguments and redirection. On top of that, he’s developing a killer eye for perception and image, and even if he sometimes strays over the line of directness with feedback, Talia appreciates a straight shooter.

It’s fun, and he’s good, and he is – above all – _absolutely confident_ that Talia Hale is going to be the next President of the United States, which is why he pushes them tonight. Yes, it’s only June, and yes, they have primaries and caucuses to get through, but Stiles looks at Talia and sees _President Hale_ and preps her for that role, not the role of just another Democratic candidate.

It’s close to midnight when he calls it a wrap, after Peter yawns for so long that he wastes two-thirds of his response time to a question about environmental preservation regulations. He’s got more notes to go over with the senator, but he’s monopolized her for a solid couple hours and other members of the team descend to ask or consult or inform.  He pulls his notebook toward him, wondering if he should finally invest in one of those handwriting-to-text tablet translator things, because even for _him_ , his handwriting during prep is illegible. He squints at a scribble that he vaguely remembers writing just a few minutes into the debate – how can he _remember_ writing something, but have no idea what he wrote?

“Hey,” a voice calls from across the mostly-quiet room, and Stiles looks up to see someone completely unfairly jaw-droppingly attractive heading in his direction. His higher functions recognize him from the pictures – this has got to be Derek Hale – but he looks a whole fucking hell of a lot better than the pictures in person. “I’m Derek.”

 _Yes. Yes, you most certainly are_.

 “The prodigal son!” Stiles exclaims, standing up to shake his hand and nearly knocking over his coffee mug and his laptop and the little lamp thing on his table in the process, because it would be far too much to hope that he might actually make a semi-decent first impression on the extremely hot son of his extremely capable candidate. As usual, his mouth picks up the slack from his buzzing brain in the most horrifying way – endless babble. “So glad you’re here, so good to have you back, thanks for your service to our country and all that! The senator and Laura have been singing your praises nonstop since I joined up in Houston. You’re coming from Egypt by way of Boston, right? Man, you’ve got to be wiped. I’ll walk you up to the hotel, just give me a second.” Stiles swings an arm over the table and holds open his much-beleaguered messenger bag to catch the debris. “I swear I need, like, a llama to carry all this shit around with me. A pack-llama. Is that a thing? Anyway, if it’s cool with you, there are some talking points in the debate in Sacramento three weeks from now – that’s the one focusing on economics – that I’d like you to look over. The finer details of macroeconomics aren’t really my strong suit, and Laura said you wrote a thesis on some macro concept that I can’t remember right now and would be able to help.”

 Derek just sort of stares at him for a second, and, well, that’s a pretty typical response to someone meeting Stiles for the first time. “Yeah,” he says after a beat or two. “I can do that.”

Stiles smiles at the confirmation, but realizes that he’s completely freaking this guy out. “Crap, I’m totally rude! Rambling on and on even though we met literally thirty seconds ago. I’d blame it on the long day, but that’d be a lie because I’m kind of just like this all the time when I’m not in business mode –.”

He can practically hear his mom’s voice in his head saying, _Take a breath, Bug. Bring it down to a low simmer_. He forces himself to stop walking and turns to Derek, offering him a (hopefully) calmer smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Derek,” he says, shaking his hand again. “I’m Stiles.”

**April, Year One of Talia Hale’s Second Term**

           

“What the hell is this?” Talia says furiously, sweeping into Stiles’ S&A office at 9:01AM on Monday and dropping a folded piece of paper on his desk. She slams the door behind her with so much force that it rebounds off the jamb and careens into the wall, so Stiles can see Erica and Boyd’s shoulders as they assume standard rest positions. Erica snags the handle as the door swings back around and gently pulls it closed.

Stiles picks up the paper and unfolds it, then sets it back down. “My letter of resignation, Madam President.”

“And what the _hell_ was it doing on my desk this morning?” She demands.

“Madam President, please have a seat,” Stiles says. “You’re supposed to be resting. You were in a coma for nine days.”

“And the last thing I need now is my press secretary up and _quitting_ without so much as a word of warning,” she says, dropping into the chair across from him.

“With respect, Madam President, the last thing you need is a press secretary inextricably tied to the woman who tried to kill you twice,” Stiles says. “Maddie’s ready to fill in until Deaton finds a permanent replacement.”

“The job eats Maddie alive, and you know it,” Talia fires back. “You’re the best goddamn press secretary I’ve ever had, Stiles, have been since you were 23. You might be the best I’ve ever _seen_ , and I – I don’t accept.”

“What?” Stiles says, dropping the formal title in surprise.

“You serve at the pleasure of the president,” Talia says, looking smug. “And I do not accept your resignation.”

“Madam President –.”

“Stiles,” she says, and for a moment she’s the woman, not the office. “If you honestly don’t want the job and that’s why you’re leaving, I’ll accept. But if you think that I’m going to lose you again because you are of the _opinion_ that having you around is bad for my image, I’ll say it again: You serve at the pleasure of the president, and I do not accept your resignation.”

Stiles fiddles with the edge of the paper. This wasn’t a choice he was expecting to have – if anything, he thought he was preempting a call demanding his resignation when he dropped the letter off a few hours earlier. He hasn’t really considered whether or not he _wants_ the job. He left the first time in a blaze of, as his mother had said, righteous indignation, and he went back because they needed him and he saw the opportunity to get information he was lacking. But does he actually _want_ to be White House Press Secretary?

Some part of him says yes. It’s an exhilarating, 200-miles-per-hour all day, every day position, and it puts him in rooms with the most important people in the world, discussing the most important issues in the world. He still considers Talia Hale his guy, and he’ll go to bat for her whenever called upon.

But there’s a stronger, deeper part of him that knows it isn’t the right time or the right fit. Peter’s got complete control of B6-13, and Talia doesn't know anything about it. Stiles’ mother is in hiding for crimes she didn’t commit, but the crimes she _did_ commit are still numerous and awful. Scott’s recovering from a _bullet_ wound. Lydia’s working on bringing Kate in. Derek is…gone. He has so many questions – Peter, Malia, his mother, the events that got them to this point. There’s something brewing on the horizon that he can’t yet bring into focus, but he can feel in his bones that it’s headed their direction.

He has too many questions of his own to stand in front of a room of reporters twice a day.

He extends the letter across his desk. “Madam President. Please accept my resignation, effective immediately.”  

           

***

 

Danny hasn’t responded to his texts – or Dylan’s texts, maybe, it’s getting hard to keep track of who he’s supposed to be – in almost two weeks.

It shouldn’t bother him.

 

***

           

“What happens next?” Scott asks.

Stiles adds another piece of wood to the fire, thankful that he agreed to Lydia’s suggestion to go out to one of the parks over the border into Virginia and have a little bonfire to celebrate Scott’s release from the hospital. Kira’s on a date and Allison and Jackson are working, so it’s just the four of them – the original founders of Stilinski & Associates. It’s quiet and open, the flames keep the persistent chill of April at bay, and Stiles is finally, finally starting to feel like he can think and breathe again. “If we were clients, what would our endgame be?”

“Take Peter Hale out of commission,” Lydia says at once. “Permanently, if that’s an option.”

“Clear your mom’s name,” Scott offers. “Of the assassination attempts, at least.”

“Dismantle B6-13,” Isaac says, so quiet that it’s barely audible. It’s the first thing he’s said since seeing Deucalion.

Stiles lets a beat pass while he thinks. “Keep everyone from getting hurt.”

“Where do we start?” Scott asks after a minute of silence punctuated by snaps and pops from the fire.

Stiles settles onto the blanket between Scott and Lydia. “With the word of a man we definitely can’t trust that he won’t try to kill his sister, who happens to be President of the United States, again unless he feels it’s in the best interest of the republic. With death threats hanging over all our heads. With me being monitored by the US Attorney for DC.”

Lydia hums. “We’ve done more with less.”

 “When?” Stiles asks, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up from his chest, inexplicably grateful for Lydia’s ability to willfully minimize a problem. “When have we _ever_ faced down a mountain even _remotely_ close to this size with a proportional lack of leverage?”

“It’s a figure of speech, sweetie,” she says. “Don’t be pedantic.”

A few more minutes pass. The woodsmoke lulls Stiles into relaxation, and, as always these days when he’s not consciously keeping it in check, his mind goes to Derek.

“You’re keeping him safe,” Scott says, best friend senses spot-on.

“I know,” Stiles says.

“You’ll be able to tell him the truth eventually,” Lydia adds. “This isn’t the end for the two of you.”

“I know.”

“He’ll forgive you for lying,” Scott says. “He has to. He’ll understand. You’ll _make_ him understand.”

“I know.”

A bird off in the distance trills a series of disconnected notes. Lydia’s hand finds his in the near dark, and his other shoulder rests against Scott’s. Isaac is on his own blanket, but his legs are stretched out so that the toe of his shoe rests just inches from Scott’s knee. It’s not physical contact, but it’s perfectly Isaac.

 "What's that line from  _The Count of Monte Cristo_ you like so much?" Lydia says into the firelight. "That one about wisdom and hope?"

"'All human wisdom is contained in these two words: Wait and Hope,'" Stiles intones automatically. "Why?"  _  
_

Lydia makes a thoughtful noise. "I was thinking that it was appropriate for the situation."

"Yeah, I'm not sure about that," Stiles says. He lowers himself onto his elbows. "I'm not feeling too passive these days." 

"What would you suggest, then?" 

Stiles cranes his neck back to look at the stars, briefly replaying that scene from  _The Lion King_ when Simba talks about the kings of the past looking down on them in his head. He's wondering how hard Lydia would smack him if he made a joke about turning Peter into a very handsome throw rug when Isaac, extremely quietly, says, "'There's a time to pray, and there's a time to fight _.'"_

"'Anything can be a weapon if you're holding it right,'" Scott finishes, half-singing the words before his profile snaps to the side to face Isaac. "Dude. You know Save Our City?" 

"Was that Plato?" Lydia asks before Isaac can respond. Stiles can practically hear the disapproval in her tone. 

"No, Lyds, that was a song about the zombie apocalypse," Stiles says, letting his elbows go out from under him and flexing his shoulder blades against the dirt through the blanket. _There's a time to pray, and there's a time to fight. Anything can be a weapon if you're holding it right. Defend what is yours, they will not take our souls. It's time now to rise and fight._

"So that's what we're doing? Taking cues from songs about zombies?" 

Stiles folds his arms behind his head. "I'm going to fight. That's for damn sure. I can't ask any of you to join me, though. This is going to be...dangerous." 

And then it's out there, what may be Stiles' greatest fear. That if he gives them this out, this exit ramp to higher ground, they'll take it. He wouldn't blame them. A little bit of him actually kind of hopes they take it, because this  _is_ going to dangerous, and these people are his family, and he's not sure he can protect them anymore. He's not sure he ever  _could_ protect them, not really - maybe it's all just been luck up until this point.  _  
_

"Don't be an idiot," Lydia says, primly straightening the hem of her skirt and then leaning back, using Stiles' bicep as a pillow. "I can't trust you not to screw this up horribly if left to your own devices."

"'With you 'til the end of the line,'" Scott quotes, jostling Stiles' shin in an affirming way. 

Isaac twists around so that he can meet Stiles' expectant gaze. "It's good, right, and necessary?" 

Stiles' heart just about jumps out of his chest at that, because it's the first time Isaac has ever said those words in front of anyone who isn't Stiles, and Stiles can't even give him the simple confirmation that he usually responds with. "I don't know," he says. "I'm not sure. I think so, though. I  _hope_ so." 

Isaac stares at him for a couple more breaths, then settles into his previous position. "Okay, then." 

Stiles turns his face back to the sky and wonders, for just a second, if Derek is looking up, too. 

 

***

 

There’s a small box of pumpkin bread on the corner of Stiles’ desk.

_Forever and a day, Bug. See you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PART TWO: COMPLETE. 
> 
> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, writing the Fox & Hole scene gave me a serious stomachache and I stiiiiill kinda hate myself for it. Tell me how you feel! Drop me a comment or come see me on tumblr (thebestadventureever) during my week hiatus, and I'll be back on FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12TH to start posting part three, The Fixer's Glass House. 
> 
> All human wisdom is contained in these two words: Wait and Hope.  
> -The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas
> 
> There's a time to pray, and there's a time to fight. Anything can be a weapon if you're holding it right. Defend what is yours, they will not take our souls - it's time now to rise and fight.  
> -Save Our City by Ludo
> 
> With you 'til the end of the line.  
> -Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Go Tell Everybody by The Horrible Crowes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M BACK. Forever in love with all of you and I promise to respond to everyone's comments as soon as I can! Come visit me on tumblr (thebestadventureever) to annoy me about updates, which happen every M/W/F. 
> 
> Chapter 2 will be up within the hour! Consider it a gift for being awesome and patient with me during my week of head-in-the-sand writing.
> 
> Chapter title is a lyric from Windows are Rolled Down by Amos Lee.


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